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THE 


GREATEST 

CRIME IN THE WORLD. 


‘" And the Dragon was wroth with the woman, 
and went to make war with the remnant of her 
seed/’ — ^Revelation, 12, 77. 






2 i Bv 

WILLIAM ALBERT LEWIS. ^ v I 


COPYRIGHTED— ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 






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‘1‘he American Job Printing Office. 
1895. 

A 







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WHY? 


I saw a huge dog spring upon a little girl and 
tear her abdomen till the entrails protruded. The 
child sank screeching in the mire, her companions 
flying terrified into adjacent yards, calling for their 
mothers. Bare-headed women hurried from back 
doors, sobbing, screaming, cursing, to the rescue. 
The dog licked his bloody chops and ambled off. 
I was too far removed to assist. When the women 
surrounded the gasping body they paled, quivered, 
reeled, stared, whispered, were confused, but did 
nothing. A red-faced, obese woman, her sleeves 
rolled to her elbows, arms hairy and freckled, dress 
front greasy and unfastened, locks thin and dis- 
hevelled, strode to tlfe now breathless body, flung a 
ragged apron over the exposed intestines, picked up 
the remains, muttered a few curses ; and, still red- 
faced, tearless, unmoved, steady-handed, shouted an 
imprecation to the crowd and trudged off to her 
hovel. 

The child was her’s. ’ 

I’ll write this woman’s life. 


HOW? 


PART ONE.— A Day. 

f A Parcel. 

Betraying a Secret. 

PART TWO. i The Greatest Crime in the 

[World. 

Unforgiven. 

Temptation. 

PART THREE. — The Wrath of the Dragon. 

PART FOUR. — The War of Vengeance. 


PART FIVE. — In the Valley of the Shadow. 


THE GREATEST 

CRIME IN THE WORLD. 


PART ONE. 


A Day. 

Resting gracefully; leaning against the window 
frame ; holding to her lips an edge of a folded note ; 
rolling the other edge with soft, dainty, white fingers; 
musing, reflecting, having happy, peace-producing 
thoughts; Vezia Nourse looked an exquisite type of 
blonde woman. Her long, flaxen h*air was in one 
braid down her back, smoothed carefully from her 
broad forehead. About her neck and wrists deep 
linen; at her throat a tiny gold pin; a morning 
gown of gray fitted her slender figure, setting out 
its curves and proportions, displaying healthful 
development in a well-bred young woman of three 
and twenty. 

The apartment was a sleeping room. The bed- 
stead, bureau, washstand, of polished mahogany. 
Purest white prevailed in the furnishings. A staple 


6 


straw carpet, which smelled sweet and wholesome, 
denoted that independence was not one of the occu- 
pants’ vanities. The room and the woman betokened 
tidy comfort. A golden robin protested against cap- 
tivity from a common black wire cage ; potted plants 
filled the windows ; a few etchings and daguerro- 
types adorned the walls and mantel , books lay upon 
the table ; a pile of sheet music upon the floor ; 
through the windows. Beacon hill, the Common just 
below, and gladness of a lovely spring morning 
roundabout. 

Vezia Nourse had bidden her room mate goodby 
for the day, and had taken from the hall table the 
letter she held in her hand and to her lips, and over 
which she mused pleasedly. Into her blue eyes 
came the expression of a soul carried upon the 
billowy tide of boundless thought. They had sat- 
isfaction in them ; a lurking laugh ; a surprise for 
somebody fashioning itself, but a way from tak- 
ing on garb of words. She looked and acted the let- 
ter unexpected. Not unhoped-for, but unantici- 
pated. She was not contemplating much, nor deeply. 
Smiles are short-lived, concentrated ; wear them- 
selves out quickly, or are frightened away. She 
contemplated something which made her happy ; and 
which, by the way she folded the letter and thrust it 
into her bosom, she meant to keep close in her heart 
for the present. 


7 


She went to the table and began copying music. 
For a few minutes the steel nib scratched lustily 
without pauses ; then came lulls, hesitation, cessa- 
tion ; a dropping of the pen and a thumb and finger 
poked past a red button into her bosom and the 
letter withdrawn and reread. She smiled, blushed, 
clutched it in both hands, kissed it hurriedly, and 
thrust it out of sight, as if fearful it would fade. 

This handsome woman had received a love letter 
that delighted and satisfied her. Her beaming eyes, 
undulating bosom, parted, muttering lips, told of 
love thoughts. The music must remain uncopied. 
The task she promised Armita Holbrook, at break- 
fast, must go undone. Work had come to her 
brain she had not planned; thought-work. Love 
glistened over it like spangles. She couldn’t hold 
the pen; nor keep quiet; nor see the score. Her 
hands became cold and twitchy ; she kept thinking 
of Armita and the “ somebody ” who had written the 
precious letter. There were lessons to be given; 
hard, humdrummery lessons to new beginners ; but 
she had no patience to stand over the Cutter chil- 
dren and waste an hour with their teasing blunders 
for a matter of a half dollar ; not when that letter lay 
in her bosom, growing big as a trunk, taking on 
motion, exhaling kisses, imparting warmth. She 
couldn’t bear it ! She had to withdraw it and reread 
it. This time she laughed to herself : 


8 


“ Poor Armita ! Won’t she be astounded ? ” 

This seemed to please her greatly, for she read 
and laughed, and muttered over Armita’ s name. 

The letter fell into her lap ; the smile faded from 
her pretty mouth ; she leaned an elbow on the table ; 
placed her head in her hand, for those serious 
thoughts women interject into their love dreams. 
For some minutes she bit her lip; then a limpid 
horizon came in the tender eyes, predicting inunda- 
tion of tears ; the slippered foot tapped nervously on 
the floor, as when a woman’s mind is perplexed. 
The letter was carefully folded again, kissed tender- 
ly, with assurance nothing in the sober thoughts 
appertained to it; then the long, braided, luxuriance 
of golden hair was pulled over the shoulder and 
manipulated until it became a handsome coil on the 
regal head, and stray strands were daintily twisted 
around a tapering finger. Vezia resolved to go out. 
This hair dressing was the first step. Soon she raised 
the shade, said pretty nothings to the robin, drew on 
her gloves, fixed the shutters, passed down stairs, 
and onto the street. 

The daguerrotypes upon the mantel were valued 
family portraits belonging to Miss Nourse and Miss 
Holbrook. The kindly-faced matron with locks 
smoothed before the ears, was Vezia’s mother, who 
paid for her child’s existence with her life. The 
stern-faced man in the wide-sleeve coat, with choker 


9 


collar, was her father; on whose account she was no 
longer an occupant of the ancestral home, but a 
music teacher in the north, far away from the old 
Albemarle manor where she was born. The sedate 
man and woman represented in contemporaneous art 
were Armita^s father and mother, both deceased ; 
who left her poorly fitted, with inherited weakness, 
to battle with life as secretary to the executive head 
of a great corporation. These were days when 
daughters away from home were not ashamed to 
exhibit old-fashioned portraits of their old-fashioned 
people ; nor to observe old-fashioned ideas concern- 
ing themselves. It vrould be less safe, perhaps, to 
penetrate the boudoir of two young bachelor women 
today. Instead of old, illusive daguerrotypes, with 
their faded faces and fantastic attire, would be found 
portraits of the popular leading men of the newest 
society play ; preserved gew-gaws of balls ; and their 
own luxurious figures in reckless exposure of loveli- 
ness. Times have not changed so far as the self- 
dependence of women is concerned except to the 
woman’s advantage; for in the days referred to, 
female employment was so restricted that Armita’s » 
engagement as secretary to the president of a cor- 
poration was as extraordinary as her enjoyment of 
an income enabling her to live in a fashionable sec- 
tion of Boston. The lives and surroundings of both 
Vezia and Armita confined them to the days before 


lO 


numerous and altered conditions grew out of perverse 
and mistaken notions of civilization. These young 
women were happier and better because anteceding 
the era which malformed the body social; which 
disseminated fallacies of woeful import, and filled 
young women’s minds with erroneous ideas. It was 
much harder then for a woman to earn her living ; 
but women-earners were more zealous ; accepting the 
imperative, unglossed and unqualified by what later 
regime has rendered congenial. The young lady 
secretary and young lady music teacher of thirty 
years ago were incalculably removed from the secre- 
tary and music teacher of today ; and in and about 
these thirty milestones have grown ivies as fatal as 
they are fascinating. 

As Vezia strolled down Park street the contents 
of the letter caused her to cogitate how to impart its 
happiness to Armita? These girls were devotedly 
attatched. For two years they had lived in the 
same room, slept in the same bed, shared the same 
notions, and spent and saved a like income. Simi- 
larity in their conditions made them frank and candid. 
Now had arisen that which made one of them long 
to be deceptive. Vezia did not want to admit that 
Rev. Mr. Meserve had asked her to be his wife. 
She did not want to concede that the offer made her 
happy; or that she proposed accepting it. She was 
at the point where a long-sustained confidence has 


to be rudely shattered ; where those who live in 
each other discover the3’ live too much so to make 
secretiveness easy; where it is difficult to keep to 
one’s self what it is equally difficult to admit. The 
pretty blonde organist of Burr street chapel had re- 
ceived this proposal of marriage from its handsome, 
eloquent pastor. It made her as happ3^ as one is who 
receives notice of a legacy while begging a meal on 
the curb. This girl was not born to work. She 
was a Virginian : born to see work done. Her per- 
fect hands, poised above the ivories of ^ keyboard ; 
pink at the nails, waxen in palm and fingers, long, 
narrow, flexible as rubber, were as unsuited to roll- 
ing pin and wringer, as her dainty waist and slender 
ankles were to walking or rocking a cradle. She 
was like Virginia girls, noble minded and indolent. 
Her nobility enabled her to scorn the second wife her 
father married ; whom eleven half brothers and sis- 
ters called mother. Her mother expired with her 
own first breath. Perhaps that fatality furnished its 
own explanation ; for a few months afterward her 
father took her away from doting grandparents who 
volunteered to rear her, and laid her in the arms of a 
woman he called wife, but could not persuade her to 
call mother. There was instinct in this aversion. 
It was fed by a multiplication of nursery companions 
who bore no likeness to her, did not cry in the same 
key, ate at other times and of different diet, and per- 


12 


mitted her the exclusive privilege of relying upon 
‘‘ papa ’’ while they wielded greater influence 
through the potential power of ‘‘mama’^ Vezia en- 
dured this step-mother-blight for nineteen years; 
during which she saw eleven children enrolled in 
the second volume of wedlock. She formed judg- 
ment, by the time she was grown, that her father 
achieved his ambition in this plentitude; that she 
was squeezed out of his affection by eleven times 
stronger pressure and the Amazonian mastery of the 
hot-headed, hard-hearted woman who took her 
mother’s title, but was far from filling her mother’s 
place. 

The result was, Vezia left her father’s house 
because it ceased to be home to her. The vulgarity 
of the step-mother, her coarseness, sensuality and 
persecution, became unbearable. When she grew 
old enough to comprehend what her own mother’s 
qualities and characteristics probably were, she felt 
disgust at the array of eleven frowsy heads, know- 
ing they meant insatiable passion ; greed for personal, 
animal gratification; brutality which deprived her 
mother of life, her home of peace, her future of 
promise. She felt herself nothing but a wayfarer, a 
lingerer on hospitality. Her step-mother had no 
love for her. Eleven voracious sucklers drained the 
woman’s bosom of motherhood. Her father acted as 
if she were a reminder of something twenty years 


13 


back he would like to forget ; so she left home, went 
to Boston, into the heart of Yankee-land, seeking her 
living. From the outstart she was successful. Mr. 
Nourse possessed the means and had educated his 
first born lavishly, especially in music: and as soon 
as she presented her letters musical circles received 
her and employment crowded her. When she receiv- 
ed the appointment of organist of Burr street chapel, 
she met Armita Holbrook, a thorough Yankee girl, 
born and reared in the hills of New Hampshire. 
Armita was, like herself, self-dependent. They joined 
interests and made residence in the same house. 
Gradually the ambitions of these pure, upright and 
industrious girls blended until they grew into each 
other’s life inseparably. Each brought to the inti- 
macy her secrets, which were exchanged with 
sympathy. Vezia told Armita her family sorrow, 
and the latter confided the death of her parents, 

brothers and sisters from consumption, and her con- 

* 

viction she would ultimately become its victim. 
Such family skeletons naturally brought about dis- 
cussion of matrimony. Vezia was disgusted with 
the thought. Her step-mother’s prolixity degraded 
the relation in her eyes. Armita dreaded an alliance 
because shrouded by inherited disease. She would 
not transmit to others to suffer as she suffered 
from blight of ties. This unison of antipathy gernii- 


H 


nated into a bo'nd of spinsterhood ; which compact 
tended to adhese their friendship. 

Vezia reflected ov^’er all these things as she turned 
into the Tremont street Mall of the Common, and 
sauntered along beneath her parasol. Her joy over 
Mr. Meserve’s proposal was in no wise dimmed; 
only she wondered how she could convert Armita to 
approval ? To break the news seemed harder than to 
answer the letter. It did not occur to her she had 
been acting double while receiving the minister’s at- 
tentions; that she had been blinding Armita. She 
aroused to dilemma of confession, when confession 
was unavoidable. In ecstacy of affection she forgot 
her repugnance toward marital life. Brought to 
personal issue it became vague, something formerly 
believed, childish, foolish, to be deplored, forgotten. 
She was all smiles, hopes, plans, and grew restive to 
impart her happiness, striving to make herself be- 
lieve Armita would applaud her and join in joy over 
the prospect of a life of happiness and religious zeal. 

Two children passed her on the walk, one hideous- 
ly crippled, though sufficiently resembling his com- 
panion to indicate relationship. The robust lad treated 
the invalid overbearingly. The puny child accepted 
it as a matter of course, wearing an air of inherited 
weakness. He looked as if he might be the last pro- 
duct of a child-weary mother. The nurse paid little 
heed to the cripple, bestowing mirth and smiles 


15 - 


upon the abler. Vezia imagined the nurse imitated 
the manner exhibited toward the children b}^ their 
parents. The tiny one looked weak ; as if he were 
a one-too-many, a negative wish, a desired absentee. 
He wore an unloved look, and an in-the-way bash- 
fulness. He was what Armita predicted her offspring 
would be should she marry. He was also a reminder 
of the last of the Nourses. He made Vezia shud- 
der and her heart throb; for he leered up under 
projecting brows as though expecting to be shoved 
aside. What made her so observant of the group ? 
Why was she interested in children ? They never 
attracted her ; but she dwelt upon the gloomy 
predictions Armita had made, and wondered if she 
were doing right to venture into motherhood with 
deep seated horror of its entailments ? 

Vezia turned down West street, crossed Washing- 
ton street, and into Bedford street, where the high 
school boys w^ere enjoying recess. What sturdy, 
strong, hearty fellows ! Parentage in their case had 
been a success. They were romping, shouting, 
scrambling over one another, pictures of health, buds 
of manhood, future husbands, future fathers, links in 
the chain of humanity. Vezia pictured herself the 
mother of such a boy. The thought made her feel ' 
more womanly ; made her square her shoulders, and 
walk more erect; made her smile proudly as she 
stood by the iron fence watching them. The faint- 


.i6 

ness caused by the cripple’s leer passed away. In 
its stead courage of possibility. Why might she not 
bear robust offspring? Why might her motherhood 
not prove a blessing ? Why look on the dark side ? 
Armita’s fears needn’t be hers ? To her reasoning 
came the supreme logic of womanly consciousness, 
which is as naturally bent toward motherhood as 
trees to fruit. With a belief she was destined to be- 
come a mother, deliciously happy therein, she rang 
the bell of a comfortable residence and was admitted 
to one of her pupils. 

“ I saw you watching the high school boys. Miss 
Nourse. Aren’t they handsome fellows ? ’ ’ 

Vezia blushed; removing her gloves, and taking a 
seat opposite Mrs. Falling : 

“ I don’t know that I remarked/’ disliking being 
watched, or having her inner thoughts invaded. 
^‘They seem very like all lads of their age.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, do you think so ? To me they are a con- 
stant scource of entertainment. I watch them ever\^ 
day. Not because my son is among them, but be- 
cause they are such manly, noble fellows, and repre- 
sent the best blood of our city.” 

You're a believer in blood, Mrs. Falling?” 

“ Most assuredly ! Boston is founded-on its blood. 
These young men represent the best quality of our 
society. We have reason to be proud of them. 


17 


You Virginians are great believers in blood, Miss 
Nourse ? 

‘‘Oh, yes. We have some right noble-looking 
boys in the south,” with a tinge of pride. 

“ Of course, my dear, of course ; and some exquis- 
itely dainty, sweet girls, also,” with flattering turn 
of the head, which Vezia professed not to notice. 

“ That’s your son’s picture, I take it ?” pointing to 
a painting of a dark-haired lad. 

“ Yes, that’s my boy.” 

“ Your only child ? ” 

“ Y-e-s,” replied Mrs. Falling, looking curiously at 
her caller, “ and I'm most happy in possessing him 
because he is a picture of his dead father, whom I 
gave to his country. Until my husband’s death he 
was the one regret of my married life. You look 
surprised? Ah, my dear Miss Nourse, you don’t 
know. We women of society cannot be successful 
mothers. The drawing room, boudoir, and reception 
room are not mother-makers. Toilers on the farm and 
help-meets of hard-working men take kindly to 
child-bearing ; but never ladies of luxury. It 
takes calloused natures to bear pain, and calloused 
hearts to inflict it. Only selfish men become fathers ; 
only slaveish women, mothers. Took at your 
hands, my dear! You’ll know one of these days.” 

lyittle did Mrs, Falling, with vanity which culti- 
vates music at maturity, realize the effect of her 


i8 


words. They seemed to prove to this child of the 
first Mrs. Nourse how removed she was from the 
quality of the second Mrs. Nourse ; and how com- 
pletely the latter filled her father’s ideal. She 
glanced down at her beautiful hands and thought ; 

“They were mother's hands ; not his.” 

She would have said more on the subject (for it 
interested her) but Mrs. Falling placed her portly 
figure on the piano stool and the tedious lesson 
began. 

When she emerged, Vezia felt too much perturbed 
to give the bothersome Cutter children their lesson. 
They had clumsy, thick, flat fingers, and talked a 
great deal. She wended her way homeward, revolv- 
ing what Mrs. Falling said and comparing the 
hearty high school boys with the puny cripple she 
saw earlier in the day. This matter of children and 
parentage became of serious moment when assured 
she was to have a husband. Malignit}^ of matrimo- 
ny seemed to Vezia inevitable offspring. Her dread, 
pathetic fear, and hesitation of girlhood stood 
affrighted before the question : Will I be a 

mother ? ” Eleven strange faces in the new crop of 
Nourses crowded her mind. They wrapped them- 
selves in the lineage of her family, leaving nothing 
for her. Either she had blood to beget noble sturdy 
children like the high school bo3^s, or they had it all 
and derived it from their imported mother. The dis- 


19 


cussioii of blood by Mrs. Falling was ill-timed. It 
caused Vezia conflict of feeling ; unwomaned her ; 
gave acid taint to her heart ; made her walk nerv- 
ously up the Park street Mall toward Beacon street. 
At the corner she passed a gentleman followed by an 
immense do‘g. Both man and dog bespoke blood 
and breeding. The man by his bearing, would own 
no dog but a thoroughbred. Had he children ? She 
looked after him. If so, they must be thoroughbred. 
She grew confused, bewildered. She pressed her hand 
to her forehead. It was feverish, throbbing. She was 
doubting the quality of her blood, and conjecturing 
if Mr. Meserve was of high birth. This struck her 
as being particularly silly. She lowered her parasol, 
crossed to the shady side and hurried home. 

She was surprised to find Armita lying on the 
outside of the bed, crying. 

Why, ’Mita, dear ! ” throwing down her parasol 
and sitting on the side of the bed to draw her gloves. 
“ WhaPs the matter ? 

Armita’s attitude was abandoned. Her skirts 
were drawn up, exposing slender ankles and limbs ; 
the tiny feet encased in low ties ; her face buried on 
her arm; in the sighing stage of grief. Vezia lay 
down beside her, gathered her in her arms, whereat 
Armita burst into fresh tears. 

“What is it, ’Mita ? WhaPs happened ? Are you 
ill?^’ 




20 


Arniita shook her head and kept on sobbing. 
Vezia became alarmed. She turned her over, drew 
her face against her bosom, stroked her brow and 
kissed her wet eyes. 

“ But you must tell me, ’Mita ! What’s the mat- 
ter ? You alarm me ! What can I do fof you ? ” 
The weeping girl flung her arms about Vezia’s 
neck and sobbed : 

‘‘Oh — I — have — deceived — you — Vezia ! I we — 
been — untrue to — you ! I’m so — sorry ! I did’nt 
mean — to— darling, — I’m sure I didn’t ! ” 

“Why, what is it? What do you mean, ’Mita? 
Deceived me ! How can that be ? ” 

“ Oh — it — was — cruel — in — me, Vezia — dear ! I — 
oughtn’t — to be so — mean ! But — I couldn’t — tell 
you, truly — I — couldn’t!” 

“ Couldn’t tell me ? Couldn’t tell me what, ’Mita ! 
Come, dear, no matter what it is, tell Vezia all about 
it ?” 

“ Well — oh, I can’t — but — you’ll forgive me, won’t 
— you, dear ? ” 

“ Yes, yes I What is it ? Tell me quick ! ” 

“ I’m — I’m — I’m — going — to — be — married I ” 
Vezia dropped her as if she had been 
molton iron ; sprang off the bed and stood in the 
middle of the room looking at her with amazement 
and amusement. Then she flung herself down once 
more, gathered Armita to her heart as if to smother 


% 


21 


her, and burst into a scream of laughter which made 
the robin shiver and cock his little head with fright 
and wonder. Armita’s tears stopped instantly. She 
raised herself, stared at Vezia, who rolled and gasp- 
ed with hysterical outburst seemingly interminable. 

“Why, Vezia f What do you mean? Have you 
lost your senses ? ’’ 

Vezia continued her laugh until the robin chirped 
and danced about, and Armita could not restrain a 
sickly sort of a smile. At length when the par- 
oxysm had subsided, she arose, and sitting on the 
side of the bed put one arm about Armita and drew 
forth the sacred letter and laid it in her friend’s 
hand. Then, while Armita read,Vezia hid her face in 
the pillow. Armita went through the letter twice, 
the smile on her face increasing as she realized how 
they both stood in dread of confession now made 
with blended tears and smiles. 

“Come, dear,” exclaimed Armita, rising and 
arranging her skirts, “let’s sit down and talk this 
over rationally. We both seem to have been trai- 
tors ? ’ ' 

“Yes; but you’ve been so the longest ! ” 

“ I don’t know about that. You and Mr. Meserve 
must have had an understanding quite a while.” 

“And you and — ” 

“Ah!” with a merry laugh, “You don’t know 
who to accuse, do you, dear? ” 


22 


No. Tell me, ’ Mita ? Who is it ? ’’ 

“ Mr. Chandler.’’ 

“Oh, 'Mita, won’t you be happy ? ” 

A shadow crossed Armita’s face as she sank into 
the rocker by the table. 

“ I hope so, V ezia, I hope so, but — ” 

“ There, there, darling ? ” and Vezia sank upon the 
floor beside the doubting girl and put both arms 
about her, “ you’re just too full of those horrid ‘ buts.’ 
You must stop those right away, love. You’re going 
to marry a handsome, rich, splendid gentleman ; 
and you ought to be as happy as a queen ! Why 
aren’t you, ’Mita?” 

Armita hung her head. Her narrow shoulders 
lifted with emotion as the hectic flush came to her 
cheeks, followed by slight coughing. 

“ I almost feel as if Mr. Chandler were marrying 
me as a mercy.” Armita lay her thin hand on her 
bosom to allay the cough. “ As if he were seeking to 
prolong my life for a little by taking me away from 
the desk. I feel he has pity for me, but I love him 
with all my heart ! Oh, that I had the constitution 
to make him the wife he deserves ! ” 

“Now, now, ’Mita, you’re going off on that hack- 
neyed old subject again ! You mustn’t get so de- 
pressed. Your health’s as good as it was two years 
ago?” 


23 


“ No, it’s not, Vezia. You don’t know. I don’t 
make any complaints, but I feel very badly at times ; 
and I can’t feel I’m doing right to give myself to 
this man, weak and helpless as I am.” 

Vezia seeing Arniita’s unaffected concern, laid her 
face against the hot cheek, striving to cheer her. 

“You’ll go away on a tour, 'Mita, and have a 
whole year abroad and come home so much improv- 
ed you won’t know yourself ! ” Smiling sweetly 
into the flushed, woe-begone face. 

They laughed again as their secrecy and it’s pecul- 
iar discovery recurred. They hugged and kissed 
each other, and Armita shed a few more tears of nerv- 
ousness. Vezia arose and took a chair opposite. 

“ Well, I must write an answer to this dear minis- 
ter’s proposal. Can’t you dictate it, ‘Mita? ” 

“ You’re not going to answer it today ? ” 

“Oh, no ! What am I thinking of ! That would 
be wretched bad taste, wouldn’t it ? He’d think I 
was waiting for it, wouldn’t he ? ” 

Perhaps you — 

“ Now, now ! ” placing her graceful hand over Ar- 
mita’s lips. “You’ve no right to say that, dear.” 

The glimpse Vezia had of her faultless hand lying 
over Armita’s lips caused her to view it carefully as 
she dropped it into her lap. 

“ ’Mita, we ought to be very sure we’re doing just 
right.” 


24 


What do you mean, Vezia ? ’ 

Still examining her hands : 

‘‘We ought to be sure we’re making proper alli- 
ances.” 

“ I don’t understand you ? ” 

“ What I mean is this, ’Mita. We are to become 
wives, hence, we have every reason to believe we’ll 
become mothers.” 

“Aren’t you a trifle precipitate, my dear ? ” 

Vezia blushed. Mrs. Falling’s ideas were in her 
mind. She had not forgotten the man with the 
dog. 

“ No, I think not. It would be more precipitate to 
contract a marriage without reflection. I claim blue 
blood in my veins, ’Mita.” 

Armita smiled, even at the seriousness of her 
friend’s face. 

“What do you mean by blue blood, Vezia ? ” 

“ Oh, I mean I can trace my ancestry, and it’s dis- 
tinguished. Our’s has always been one of the first 
families of Virginia.” 

“And you fear you may be making a bad alliance 
regarding families ? ” 

“ I know nothing of Mr. Meserve’s antecedents ? ” 

“You love him, though, don’t you ? ” 

“ Indeed, I do ! ” 

“ Don’t you think you can trust your heart ? ” 

“ What does my heart know more than my head ? ” 


25 


‘‘Your head has told you not to marry, Vezia. 
Hasn’t it?” 

“ Y-e-s.” 

“ Well, now your heart tells you the contrary. The 
heart’s strongest. Always so in a woman. I don’t 
know^ anything about Mr. Chandler’s family. He 
may have been born in poverty, obscurity, degra- 
dation. I don’t propose taking any steps to find out. 
He loves me. That I know. He knows I’m the last 
of my family ; but he wants me. My heart has told 
me I must put myself in his hands. It’s God’s wilh 
All the happiness I’ll have in life must come through 
him. M}^ heart tells me his blood is as blue as mine. 
I’ve no fear to mingle them.” 

Vezia still gazed at her beautiful hands ^ still 
thought of what Mrs. Falling said; still of the man 
with the dog. 

“ But 'Mita, if you should have — '' 

She checked herself ; but not soon enough. Armita 
leaned forward, putting her hand on Vezia’s knee. 

“ Our old time bugbear, dear. How often have we 
discussed it? Vve not forgotten it, nor excluded 
it from my decision. I know I’ll become a mother. 
I feel it. I’ve a presentiment. I come of a fruitful 
race. My parents had ten children; buds frost- 
bitten by death; many of them cut down in the 
slumber of infancy. I used to dread the thought. 
You know how much I’ve feared it ? Already 


26 


disease is doing it’s work in me. I feel I’m doomed, 
as sure as the sun shines yonder. I’ve made no 
secret of this to Mr. Chandler. I’m a consumptive. 
I’ve told him all about it. I’ll bring to my nuptials 
a blight; but I’ll be his wife, and a mother, if it be 
God’s will ! ” 

Vezia felt peculiarly over these utterances. She 
seemed possessed of determination almost vicious in 
it’s willfulness. Armita divined her thoughts. 

‘‘ You think me foolish, Vezia, to be so set in this, 
to so completely retrace my steps, to take such an op- 
posite view from what I’ve always preached ? ” 

Vezia wanted to say she thought it remark- 
able, but remembered some of her own utter- 
ances. 

“ No, ’Mita, I don’t think you acted more strangely 
than I.’' 

But from a different motive ? ” 

Vezia looked at her. She felt what Armita was 
about to say and it made her uneasy. 

‘‘I’ve known you intimately for two years. Vezia, 
and I’ve learned that you were born to be a wife. 
All your suberb vitality and intensity of nature 
were not given you to be blown like desert sand on 
winds of unmet desire. To you, dear, marriage is a 
necessity. You are intended for a mother. Your 
blood is burning blood ; thick, plenteous ; it gushes 
through your veins and thrills and trembles. It gen- 


27 


erates love as coals make steam. It surcharges you, 
animates you, enlivens you, stimulates you, makes 
your whole being wifely. You must marry, Vezia! 
I've known this, and sometimes feared for you.’’ 

She spoke with such feeling and truth, Vezia 
could not withdraw lier eyes from the sunken pallid 
face with its two rose spots, the dark rings under the 
lids, the fragile wrists and needle-like fingers. 
Armita was all a-quiver with nervous energy which 
consumed the weakened body. A short pause and 
she continued : 

With me, Vezia dear, it is different. I don’t marry 
because I crave anything but rest, care, tenderness. 
I’m tired of being tossed about on the raft of labor. 
You may think me selfish, Vezia, and unworthy 
such generous love as Mr. Chandler’s ; but I’ve told 
him all. I don’t covet his wealth, for I’ll not live to 
enjoy it. But I do long for his strong arms about 
me; for his strong tones to comfort; for his 
strong kisses to revive ; for his strong courage to 
help me be the wife he craves, so long as iny 
strength lasts. And if, before the sands are run, I 
am able to leave him my face and heart and love in 
a tiny counterpart, then I’ll be ready to go, and I 
shall go. Yes, then I will go, Vezia.” 

Tears came into her eyes as she tried to look 
Vezia in the face, a brave, steady, unquestioning 
look. She clasped the vigorous girl’s hands in hers 


28 


and fanned her face with hot breath, exhaled 
through thin, blue, pursed lips. 

Vezia knew all Armita said of her was true. The 
infallible sensibilities of nature acquiesced with what 
she saw was no mystery to this woman who had 
been her constant companion. The predictions 
Armita made for herself she wanted to think exag- 
gerated; but there were too much steadiness and 
firmness in the voice, too certain reality in the gaze, 
too much EvSSurance in the judgment. Vezia expe- 
rienced release from secrecy. There was no longer 
anything untold between them. Armita knew her 
better than she knew herself. The predictions she 
made, and the deep, fathoming analysis of her frail, 
doomed self occasioned sorrowful reflections in 
Vezia’s mind. She saw blue blood in this girl of 
a different type. It was blue blood of courage, 
which saw death at every corner yet feared it not. 
Armita knew, as those know who hear the swish of 
Death’s scythe ever ringing in their ears ; who look 
behind and see His trail of despoilation ; who see 
loved ones strewing the wake of life. She had been 
honest with her affianced, and pictured to him — ah ! 
if she pictured to him as graphically as she pictured 
to Vezia, what love he had for her ! She was ready to 
go to the altar as she was prepared to go to the 
grave. One must soon follow the other. To be a 
loving, grateful wife first ; perhaps a suffering, sacri- 


29 


ficing mother ; to leave in his arms an image of her- 
self; then to the grave to draw over her head the 
pall of mortal oblivion ; to be perhaps forgotten by 
husband and child; and to do all this for destiny, 
for fate. Ready to render happiness to him for a 
time ; and then, tired, worn out, consumed, exhausted, 
evaporating as the mist lifts and its mosaics of filmy 
charm fall into chaos of rugged outline, to float 
away into the ether of the Forever ! 

Vezia thought this sublime in Armita. 

It was. 

Armita’s arms rested on the table, her face laid 
upon them. Vezia sat directly opposite the mirror 
and studied the arch of her own regal head, the 
classic contour of her features, the suberb mould of 
her figure. Was hers blue blood ? Was it blue 
blood made those perfect lines and that daintiness ? 
The blue of the heavens is blue because of depth and 
substance. Was her character deep and substantial ? 
No head wears the laurel if the form wear not 
the purple. Men crown men, but God makes kings. 
A prick of the wrist of Armita or herself the oozing 
drops would have the same hue ; but one would 
made her faint, the other kill Armita. Vezia felt 
her superficiality, Armita’s sincerity. Her solidity 
was lustreless; Armita^s hollow life brilliant. The 
geiiuine must melt away in the grave. The counter- 
feit was to shine in social splender. She thought 


30 


again pf the high school boys, the cripple, and the 
man with the dog. Of them all none seemed blue 
blooded but the little atom of humpbacked anatomy 
who leered from under his pain-wrinkled brows, 
avoiding a blow and shirking a curse. 

Glancing into her lap Vezia saw the letter of propo- 
sal. Her heart — the heart Armita bade her heed — 
made reply with pumping blood ; wrote answer with 
crimsoning face and throbbing pulse. The eleven 
legatees of her ancestral estate were forgotten ; the 
passionate fecundity of her usurpuous stepmother was 
forgotten ; all she thought of was her own sweet, 
vself, lapsing into calm selfishness which a woman’s 
heart casts about her when the dear wish of her 
being is a tangible possibility. 

The lunch bell rang. Armita excused herself on 
the plea of fatigue and remained in the chamber. 

When Vezia had gone down stairs Armita arose, 
went to the mirror and closely examined her wan, 
drawn appearance. She smoothed back her thick, 
brown hair, bathed her swollen eyes, fondled her 
slenderness in a self-pitying way, amazed she could 
be the object of a man’s adoration. Then she crOvSsed 
to the mantel and leaned wearily before the pictures 
of her parents, inwardly reproving them for beget- 
ting her. She was capable of happiness and dearly 
longed for it. Her soul had natural lightness of air, 
but it was confined, sealed in the opaque glass of 


31 


hopelessness. A man’s love and his wealth -com- 
manding power, at her call ! All to live for ! Death 
doubly deplorable ! Eagerness charging her watery 
blood ! Anticipation thumping at her incapable 
heart ! Vengeance of clamoring happiness asking 
release from bondage of fate ! She shook her head, 
gazing at those who brought her into being to be* 
driven from its greenest pastures by disease. Her 
father and mother seemed transparent, hazy outlines 
of existence, coming and going in their frames like 
respirations of memory. They had shape but no 
substance. She thought of the family legends of the 
rigor of the Cape Cod winters, when her ancestors 
braved exposure, hunger, conflict with savages, to 
bequeath her — what? A name strong as the rock 
ribs of the coast ; but a vitality perishable as 
ice upon the hearth. Hers was the blue blood of 
Miles Standish and John Alden, paled, thinned, 
wasted away. Only enough of it left to trace her 
life upon dried and brittle parchment. She turned 
away heart-sick and sank into her chair. 

Armita’s pathetic attitude caused Vezia, when she 
returned, to sit on the arm of the chair and caress 
her. 

“ When are you to be married, ’Mita ? ” 

I’ve left the office to prepare for the wedding. 
Whenever I’m ready.” 

You’ll live in town ? ” 


32 


“ On Boylston street. Mr. Chandler has purchased 
a home there. He’s also building a summer place 
at Chelmsford.” 

‘‘You’ll go abroad, won’t you, dear?” 

‘ ‘ That rests with me. He leaves our tour to my 
choice. I suppose you’ll hardlj’ be able to go to 
•Europe? Mr. Meserve cannot well be spared from 
his church.” 

“ No, I suppose not,” replied Vezia with a pang of 
envy at her friend’s superior luck. “All that deters 
me from accepting Mr. Meserve are the restrictions 
and confinements of his profession ; for I very much 
doubt if I’m qualified to be a minister’s wife.” 

Armita looked at her friend. • 

“Why, you’ve not a doubt about becoming his 
wife, Vezia ? ” 

Vezia was silent. Of a sudden her impulsive nature 
resented restraints of pastoral life, and the impecu- 
niosity of the clergyman compared with the affluence 
of Mr. Chandler made her momentarily spiteful and 

4 . 

envious. Why weren’t their positions reversed? 
But she dismissed that thought bravely. 

“No, of course not. I shall accept him and will 
be happy, and will make him the best wife I know 
how.” 

“ That’s beautifully said,”exclainied Armita. “I’m 
so glad to hear 5"ou say so, dear, because with that 


33 


view you’ll be so much happier. You’re marrying 
a grand man ! I wonder if you value him ?” 

This was said absently, not doubtingly. Armita 
appreciated the qualities of the clergyman, and 
hoped Vezia realized them all. 

‘‘ He’s a remarkable man in many ways,” con- 
tinued Armita. ‘‘ He’s worthy the best there is in 
your rare womanhood. Remember that the best in 
a husband is the work of the best in his wife. 
Because he’s a minister he is none the less human. 
' Don’t you stand the least little bit in awe of him, 
Vezia ? ” 

‘“I’m afraid it will be hard for me to conform to so 
prosy a life. If he weren’t a clergyman, but a rich 
man — ” 

“ Oh, Vezia, you’re envious ! You must remember 
if he weren’t a clergyman he wouldn’t be Mr. 
Meserve ! That’s one of women’s mistakes. It’s too 
much the fashion to marry men for what they have; 
not for what they are. Our parents didn’t marry 
thus.” 

This reference to her parents revived in Vezia 
memories of the despoiled home down in Albemarle ; 
brought up the numerical eleven ; recalled what 
Mrs. Falling said; all of which made her toss her 
^ head ; and iVrmita felt sure she was envious. 

“If we women,” continued Armita, “ would only 
cultivate our husbands instead of cultivating their 


34 


possessions, we’d be vastly happier. I’ve been as 
reluctant giving my consent to Mr. Chandler be- 
cause of his wealth as on account of my health. 
You’ll think this strange, dear, but I care nothing 
for his money. Yet men of wealth know their power. 
Be they ever so good and kind, and though they 
love a woman ever so much, there’s a certain vanity 
a rich man always has. And this is largely because 
women are not sufficiently sincere to separate the 
man from his possessions. But, thank God, can 
do so, for what are riches to me ? What is anything 
to one who cannot enjoy? Mr. Chandler’s money 
cannot give me back health, cannot increase my 
happiness, cannot soften the agonies of death.” 

Armita hid her face in her hands a moment. 

“ But I mustn’t talk this way, must I, dear ? That 
doesn’t affect your case. Only don’t covet money, 
Vezia, nor imagine it brings anything helpful to love 
or assisting to matrimony. I’m in a position to 
know ; you’re not. Both these men have the ambi- 
tions of all husbands. Men are alike in that 
regard. I can read the ulterior desire in Mr. 
Chandler’s eyes. He is identical with the humblest, 
poorest man in the world in longing to be a 
father ; but his wealth is powerless to that end, as it 
is in many other matters. A wife outranks a fortune 
in the procurement of a husband’s ambition. Look 
at it in that light, Vezia. See what occupies Mr. 


35 


Meserve as the paramount desire of his life; and 
address yourself to its attainment, with all the en- 
ergy you possess, and you’ll be a happy wife. The 
desire of the husband is the wish of the father. It 
is so universally, dear. And we women should 
acquire such an insight into our husbands’ natures 
as will enable us to promote whatever their manly 
inclinations foster.” 

“You talk like a philosopher, 'Mita. What pro- 
digious reasoning your practical little head contains ? 
And how averse you used to be to the possibility of 
marrying ? ” 

Armita clasped her knee with her palms and 
leaned forward thoughtfully, gazing through the 
open window. 

“I’m not altogether converted yet, dear, ’V she 
replied. “You start, and think it very queer? I’ve 
said enough of myself to indicate wherein my doubts 
lie. But for you I have the heartiest approval. You 
will be supremely happy unless you make yourself 
unhapp3^” 

“You don’t think I’ll do that?” 

“ I hope not. But it’s being done daily. I some- 
times think married women have more temptations 
than single ones.” 

“I can’t see how?” 

“We’ve never been married, Vezia, so we cannot 
fully understand. But I can imagine so much that’s 


36 


ill the way of a wife’s being all she should, as 
well as in her being careful not to be what she 
ought not.’’ 

‘‘ Wives are only women, ’Mita.” 

‘‘ That’s it. And the older I grow, and the shorter 
my life becomes, it seems as if I had clearer insight 
into some things. I feel as if I had it in me to be ati 
apostolic wife, if that expresses it. I feel that the 
fears, doubts, jealousies, wdiich encompass marriage 
are to be spared me. I feel I’ll be brave in every- 
thing; and knowing the inevitable, I’ve schooled 
myself not to dread any result however fatal. I 
don’t want to make you gloomy, dear, but I want 
to make myself plain. We adore the men whose 
love is our’s. We trust them. We believe implicitly 
in them. We could believe nothing ill of them. 
But their loves are untried by us. After they have 
been tried, when we know them better, we’ll discover 
they are not everything w'e believed them. The 
purest gold dulls. We have hard work not to toss 
it aside. Our temptation is to believe it no longer 
gold. But it is still gold, Vezia, if for no other reason 
because our womanly honor, virtue, faith, trust have 
made it gold. Though husbands prove inconstant, 
wives’ honor can never be forfeited except by their own 
will. The altar a wife sets up in the temple of wed- 
lock remains an altar. It can never be anything 
else. Altars may be devastated, despoiled, wrecked ; 


37 


but they are still altars. A wife can protect that 
altar by remaining by it ; keeping it’s tapers replen- 
ished, it’s incense burning, it’s soft, sweet music 
murmuring the undying vespers of constancy. 
Never allow anything to tempt you to turn your 
back upon that altar, Vezia. Within it’s holy 
of holies is the sanctuary of motherhood, which no 
true woman ever deserts. When within woman God 
lights the lamp of another life, a halo appears above 
the altar of wifehood as it appeared above the 
manger in Bethlehem. To every loyal wife concep- 
tion is the work of imniaculate love. If men have 
Christ for an example, women have His mother. 
Either love-sanctified conception by an obedient 
wife is immaculate, or the future is a delusive 
dream. Forgive me, Vezia, but this has grown very 
close to my heart. I’ve dwelt upon it for years. 
And when I realize that the last task of my life is to 
embody the virtues of wife and perhaps the pains of 
of maternity, I feel more than ever the responsibility 
of carrying out that task to the best of my capacity. 
Marriage may, or may not, be sinless. If sinless, 
what we term heredity will reward victory over sin, 
and our ofF-spring will be pure, right-minded, npble. 
But if it be sinful, as sure as fate spins it’s 
thread, the visitation will come in some form or 
other. Nature is God’s expression, and God never 
masks His face. If we please Him our children will 


38 


be bright, happy, perfect ; but if we displease Him, 
they will be blighted, misshapen, hideous, in body or 
mind.” 

As Armita dilated upon these truths Vezia re- 
called the cripple. His crouched, shapeless back, 
his hunted, leering eyes, came to her mind and she 
wondered what displeasure his parents had occas- 
ioned ? With all her native sense and accomplishing 
education, Vezia listened attentively to the expound- 
ing of these prophetic truths. The glossings of 
culture had not directed her thoughts into the 
channels of self-examination, nor into enquiries 
calculated to unravel what ceased to be mysterious 
to Armita’ s intelligence. Armita proved herself 
deeply learned in the classics of rational being. 
To what was she indebted for this ? To the 
inspiration which fortihes, the disclosure which 
comes, the explanation which precedes. These were 
imparted to her by the Benignity which clothes 
some minds. Her powers of insight enabled her to 
divest convictions by Providence of their marvel, 
and prompted her to awaken in Vezia a livelier 
sense of the responsibilities she was about to under- 
take. Vezia looked into Armita’s face. Something 
etherial, seraphic glowed in the transparent skin, in 
the unfathomable eyes that peered out into the 
vanishing day. As her lips ceased moving Armita 
* appeared possessed by preoccupation of what she 


39 


had been saying. She seemed oblivious to every- 
thing about. Her face was flushed in spots; her 
rich, dark hair fell abundantly over her brow; her 
pinched and sallow features seemed smoother, softer, 
more brilliant; her slender form leaned forward in 
transfixed unconsciousness; she looked poetic; the 
mortal encasement of a wondrous soul, the frail 
shell of a marvelous spirit. 

Vezia could scarcely believe her a prospective 
wife, for it meant so much to Armita it didn^t to 
herself; but she knew the soul of the girl was in 
all she said and she reverenced her expressions. 
It was hard for Vezia with her human vitality 
to comprehend the spirituality of this woman 
who felt the ebb of her life set in. She felt Armita 
was morbid ; she was unable to grasp the import of 
what rose above the sphere of human womanhood 
and absorbed the philosophy of innate being. The 
focus of Vezia’s soul was narrow, more shallow than 
Armita’s, and her nature was less expansive and capa- 
cious. 

The robin went to his perch, while these women 
sat in the twilight occupied with their thoughts. 
The night settled roundabout. It had been a re- 
markable day, the most singular in their lives. 
When the stars came out, their wakeful eyes saw the 
skies reflecting the brightness of the great city’s 
night. What were their reflections while sleep was 


40 


tying up the ravelled sleeve ? Vezia exchanged 
dreams of day for those of sweet and slumberous 
night; and Armita sank into insensible joy which 
wraps the faintest heart with courage and makes 
light the weariest feet. 



41 


PART TWO, 


The Parcee. 

Rev. Hollis Meserve stood in his doorway, saw his 
visitor pass down the steps to the street, waved his 
hand courteously, returned into the hallway. Possi- 
bly the subdued light of the Moorish lamp upon the 
% stairpost depressed him ? There is something 
ghoulish about the black, lobster-cage hangings 
with double thickness of glass and a discouraged 
flicker behind. The mahogany wainscoting and 
doors, the walnut stairs and dark, stripped flooring 
may have been too sombre for a man in his frame of 
mind ? The dark rugs and unlighted drawing room, 
tomb-like through parted portieres, may have helped 
his lonely feeling? He made little noise in his moc- 
casins as he ascended to his study. A quiet man by 
nature, he would not be otherwise because alone; 
and with sad, serious contemplations his movements 
were more quiet than usual. He dropped into an 
easy chair, laid his head back, put the tips of his 
fingers together, for meditation. 


42 


Ralph Chandler had just left. He stepped in on 
his way home to announce the grave illness of his 
wife. Strange hallucination ! Forewarned as he 
had been, he spoke of her decline surprisedly. He 
seemed shocked; dazed by the culmination over- 
shadowing. He attributed her collapse to recent 
accouchemenL He described her weakness as helpless; 
her temperature as fluctuating ; her vitality as dimin- 
ishing. He quoted extensively from technicalities of 
physicians; referred to the improvement in her health 
since marriage ; and dwelt especially upon the cessa- 
tion of her cough. But she was losing ground daily. 

Would her pastor visit her ? 

Mr. Meserve told Mr. Chandler his wife was ^ 
spending the afternoon with Mrs. Chandler. Cer- 
tainly he would pay a visit the following day, and if 
he or Mrs. Meserve could be of service they held them- 
selves in readiness. 

These courtesies exchanged, Mr. Chandler hur- 
riedly departed, and Mr. Meserve returned to his 
study to resume preparation of a discourse. Before 
taking up the thread of theology he fell into con- 
templation of antecedent and existing conditions. 

He had been particularly happy in the friendship 
of Ralph Chandler and his wife. They pursued 
such beautiful lives of marital devotedness, elegant 
simplicity, faultless charity, humble piety. The 
rare influence of the wife shone in the husband’s 


43 


life. She lifted him into higher, nobler, paths of 
thought and action. Not that Mr. Chandler had 
been excessive in worldliness. He enjoyed a rich 
man’s pleasures; which, when he married Armita 
Holbrook, she induced him to abandon. The result 
was that a few months after their marriage the pastor 
rejoiced to welcome the millionaire into the church, 
and henceforth the home life of the Chandlers was 
filled with Christian blessings. More particularly 
was Mr. Meserve pleased because Mr. Chandler was 
prompted to make noble use of his wealth, so unlike 
the employment of fortunes in the hands of most 
men of affairs. He disposed of his fast horses and 
with the money built additions to his mills, thereby 
giving employment to hundreds. He severed his 
club connections and gave the annual fees for the 
education of several talented, struggling young 
people. He established a public library in his 
native town and built there a church. He gave 
large sums to members of his own family whose 
life struggle had been less successful. In numerous 
ways this great business power yielcjed to the 
graciousness of his wife, to whom much credit was 
due for his munificence and kind-heartedness. Such 
was the power of the woman to be taken away. 

Very confidential she had been with her pastor 
when abandoning the foreign trip her husband 
proposed, preferring to address herself to home- 


44 


making. • From the first the pastor found Mrs. 
Chandler a help and delight in his professional work, 
and when he learned of her motherhood he rejoiced 
for father and offspring, because he comprehended 
what bounty of affection and sacrifice it meant. 
Mr. Meserve knew, as he felt Mr. Chandler must 
know, the days of this woman’s life were numbered. 
She had told her pastor how much she was anxious 
to accomplish in the brief time to be hers. The only 
way he could account for her husband’s blindness to 
approaching fatality was the hopeful wilfulness 
people encourage when they know the inevitable, 
but make themselves believe its remoteness. 

Mr. Meserve had rejoiced in the intimacy of Mrs. 
Chandler and his wife. Their fondness for each 
other increased, and the mild influence of the invalid 
softened Mrs. Meserve’ s impetuous nature. The 
prospective demise of Mrs. Chandler came very near 
the pastor’s household, for their ties were of the 
truest character. 

While employed in these reflections he heard a 
ring at the- front door. Remembering the servant 
was out, and thinking of his wife’s return he de- 
scended and opened the door. A boy stood in the 
stoop, a small parcel in his hand. 

“ Does Mrs. Meserve live here ? ” 

‘‘She does.” 


45 


The boy thrust the" package into his hand and ran 
down the steps. 

This incident scarcely interrupted the current 
of his thought He returned to his study bearing 
the package. He turned it over. It was without 
address, a small parcel, in white paper, tied with 
red string such as pharmacists use. Why no name, 
nor address? Doubtless something his wife had 
purchased and ordered sent home. Mr. Meserve was 
not curious, but found himself untieing the package. 
Some mistake. The boy had left the wrong one. 
He carefully replaced the wrapper and cord, and 
laid it on his desk, to have handy when the boy 
returned. 

Among his reflections the pastor recalled the 
happiness of his choice of Vezia. At the time of 
their marriage Armita had said many kindly things 
regarding her friend, leading Mr. Meserve to believe 
he had secured a jewel. Reality proved she had not 
done Vezia justice. The quick, impulsive girl 
possessed endearing attributes which belong to ex- 
citable natures. Her assistance in church matters; 
her concern for the poor ; her zeal in hospital 
work ; her delight in the Sabbath school ; made 
his life unspeakably happy and profitable. He 
could not help feeling that he, minus the Chandlers' 
money, was most blessed ; for no skeleton over- 
shadowed his household. His wife was strong, 


46 


hearty, ambitious, devoted to him, untiring in the 
church, amiable, happy, contented. These intensified 
Mr. Meserve’s sympathy for Mr. Chandler and made 
him prayerfully thankful in his own behalf. 

The bell rang again. This time it was his wife. 

“Ah, dear,’’ kissing him fondly, “you were on the 
lookout for me ? ’ ’ 

“ Yes, dear, I’ve been waiting for you.” 

“ I’ve been with ’Mita, Hollis. She’s going fast. 
It’s but a matter of a little while. I staid there until 
Mr. Chandler came home.” 

“ He called here on his way. Isn’t it strange he 
can’t see she’s doomed ? ” 

“ Y-e-s,” drawled Vezia, glancing about to the hat 
tree and table. 

They ascended the stairs and entered the study. 
She laid off her ' wrap and bonnet and drew a 
chair to the hearth. He leaned upon the mantel.” 

“I can’t account for Chandler’s blindness,” he 
went on. “ He speaks as if she is sure to recover.” 

“Why, Hollis, she’s so weak she can’t lift a hand. 
To be sure her cough’s disappeared and she’s full of 
excitement over the baby. Splendid little fellow he 
is, Hollis, and you’re so fond of babies, aren’t you, 
dear ? You must go and see him.” 

“I promised Mr. Chandler to call upon his wife 
tomorrow. He said she expressed a desire to see 
me. Did she say anything to you about it ? ” 


47 


Vezia caught sight of the parcel on the desk. 
She flushed, stared, and heard nothing he said. 

Did she say anything about it to you ? ” 

‘‘ About what, dear ? ’’ rousing and looking at him 
curiously. , 

‘ ‘ About my coming to have a talk with her ? ” 

I don’t recall that she did.” 

‘‘ Perhaps it’s simply his wish ; but he led me to 
think she desired it.” 

‘‘Very likely, dear. She’s fully aware her end is 
near. Oh, Hollis, isn’t it too bad? Think of it } 
What if I were in her place ? Mercy ! Its awful ! ” 
She shivered, drew more closely to the fire, looked 
furtively at the parcel, and was ill at ease. Her hus- 
band noticed it. 

“ I’m afraid your call unnerved you, darling ? ” he 
said, stroking her hair. “Yet your nerves are, ordi- 
narily, excellent. You stayed too long, and the 
conversation was not calculated to brighten you ? ” 
“No, indeed,'- she replied, wearily, gazing into the 
fire. “We talked of nothing but her illness, her con- 
finement, her wasting strength, and her approaching 
death. I don’t think it right for a woman in ’Mita's 
condition to have children. It’s a sin — a shame ! ” 

“ It’s Divinely ordained, Vezia. It has to be. We 
can’t array ourselves against the ordinations of Pro- 
vidence, nor take God’s law out of His hands.” 


48 


He spoke as though he had expressed those con- 
victions before ; and she listened as if again disagree- 
ing with them. She shrugged her shoulders and 
cast another look at the parcel. 

“But it seems so injudicious,^’ she went on, occu- 
pied by the package and peculiar expressions flitting 
over her face, “ and so ill-advised to bring children 
into the world to leave them orphans.” 

This remark was too commonplace to attract him. 
He was poking the heavy coal in the grate to 
enliven it's blaze. He leaned over in front of her. 
She fixed a peculiar look on him. It wasn’t a 
wholesome, nor a natural look to her, nor one she 
would have him see. It was a look one fixes on 
another when there is treachery in the heart. Yet, 
accuse her of that ? 

He turned. The look vanished. 

“ A boy left a parcel for you, dear. On the desk 
there. It must be a mistake. Ah, there’s the bell. 
Probably it’s the boy to rectify his blunder. I’ll take 
it to him.” 

He picked up the little parcel. She arose nervous- 
ly, but he paid no heed, and passed out into the hall. 
She preSvSed her hands together and watched him 
disappear. She bit her lip, paled and flushed, flung 
herself into a chair, tapped her foot nervously, twist- 
ed her dainty fingers, moved about in her seat, then 
arose and paced the room. She went to the door, 


49 


opened it softly, listened. He was giving some direc- 
tions to the servant about supper. She it was who 
rang. Vezia closed the door, walked the floor, 
her hands clasped behind. Hearing him ascending 
the stairs she resumed her seat and calm demeanor. 
He returned with the package and laid it on the 
desk. Her eyes followed it eagerly. Her expression 
alarmed him. 

^^YouVe overdone yourself, Vezia. Hadn’t you 
better go to your room and let Maggie bring you up 
a cup of tea while you rest a little ? I’ll be out to 
church meeting tonight, you know.” 

Perhaps I had, but you needn’t have anything 
sent me. A nap is all I need.” 

He kissed her fondly. 

“ You’ll not be late, dear ? ” 

Not late, I hope.” 

He kissed her again. She slowly left the room. 

In her chamber Vezia flung herself on the bed and 
covered her face. lyistening to Armita’s woeful 
predictions, witnessing that waste of disease, ex- 
periencing pity for a blighted home, were too much 
for her. But the chief disturbance arose from 
another cause, which exit from the study did not 
diminish. She stopped thinking of Armita and 
thought of herself. She was deceiving her husband 
and it worried her. It was easier for her to be diplo- 
matic since her deception of Armita over the be- 


50 


trothal. That was the first deceit of her life. It 
was not momentous, but it initiated her. Wife though 
she was, she lived much within herself. She was 
vSecretive and independent. Her respect for her hus- 
band, her reliance on his judgment, never led her to 
put him before her own reasoning. She thought 
she could act for herself better than any one could 
for her. That was her logic when she deceived 
Armita. As wife she felt as independent as maiden. 
She found her husband deficient in what a wife 
seeks counsel upon. This encouraged her self-reli- 
ance; increased her secretiveness. She had taken 
the secrets of wedlock into her charge, and 
they were preying upon her. She was troubled, 
disturbed, in dilemma. She was further than ever 
from the confidence a broad spirit and a deeper intel- 
ligence would have prompted; and was glad to 
commune with her distraction, incapable of rearrang- 
ing her mind. 

Vezia heard the tea bell ring, heard her husband 
close the stud}^ door on his way to the dining 
room. She arose, tip-toed into the hall and 
down stairs into the study. The parcel lay upon 
the desk. She seized it and hurried back to her 
chamber. She placed it carefully awa}^; proving 
that the boy in a hurry made no mistake. With 
brighter countenance and easier mind she disrobed 
and retired. 


51 


Some hours later she was awakened by her hus- 
band entering the room. 

Vezia, the bo}^ came for the parcel on my desk, 
didn’t he ? I see it’s gone.” 

She feigned drowsiness, and murmured in a 
half-awake fashion : 

‘ ‘ Oh — y-e-s — d-e-a-r.” 

thought so.. Do you feel better ? ” 

“ Y-e-s — d-e-a-r.” 

was kept later than I expected.’' 

He kissed her good night, put out the gas, and 
went back to his study. 



52 


BETRAYING A SECRET. 


Rev. Mr. Meserve wended his way down Boylston 
street, ascended the broad marble steps of Mr. 
Chandler’s residence, and was admitted. He was 
ushered into a luxurious drawing room, meflowed by 
soft laces and toned tapestries ; not over furnished, 
but expressing comfort and elegance. The touch of 
woman’s refinement was everywhere, but it was not 
a vain touch. There was pride but no elaborateness; 
dignity without rigidity ; richness but no exaggera- 
tion. As he sat in the open bay window, awaiting 
summons to the sick room, he could not restrain com- 
parison between the taste here and that shown in his 
home adornments. It was not distinction of means. 
He was not unreasonable. Expenditure was not 
the item, for his residence was furnished b}^ the 
society, his wife being called upon to merely make 
selections. He had never observed the dissimilarity 
in these women until sitting in this room. Mrs. 
Chandler’s taste was quiet, sober, genuine. Vezia’s 
leaned to brilliancy, show, the artificial. Not being 
critical perhaps accounted for his oversight. There 


53 


seemed something here not in his own home. It 
annoyed him. 

The nurse invited the pastor to Mrs. Chandler’s 
room. 

As he w^ent up the stairs he heard the wee voice 
of an infant. It sent a peculiar thrill through his 
heart ; a hungry, longing sensation. 

He was shown into the large front room partly 
darkened. Upon a couch reclined Mrs. Chandler, 
clad in a morning robe which pronounced her ema- 
ciation. The rose hangings lessened her pallor. 

“You are very good to come to see me,” she 
whispered, trying to rise and extend her hand. “ Be 
seated please. You may leave us, nurse.” 

He took a low chair beside her. She retained 
clasp of his hand. 

“ Aren’t you afraid to have so much company ? 
Vezia tells me she spent yerterday* afternoon with 
you.” 

“Oh, no. I ^njoy seeing you, my dear friend; 
and Vezia is my stay and prop,” she replied with 
difficulty. “ Ralph told me last night you said you 
would call today. You don’t know how pleased I 
was.” She looked up and smiled. “Would you 
kindly raise me a little ? 

He lifted her tenderly. 

“Thank you.” 

She spoke more easily, and continued : 


54 


“ I wanted to see you because I’ve a few things to 
talk to you about. The end isn’t far off, and God 
forgive me, but for my little son I don’t care how 
soon it comes. You wouldn’t blame me if you knew 
how I suffer.” 

“ I don’t blame you. 1 know how ill you’ve been 
and I understand there’s a limit to human endurance. 
Moreover, you are prepared ? ” 

“Yes,” she replied, a light crossing her wan face, 

“ I am prepared, fully. I have done all I had to do 
to the best of my capacity. I’ve nothing to regret, 
nothing I would have otherwise. I don’t dread 
leaving Mr. Chandler. You seem surprised ? ” 

He gave her a hurried glance. 

“ You must know there is a point where invalids 
do well to sever the dearest ties. Tove doesn’t 
improve within sight of the grave. It would be 
unreasonable to expect to drag healthy, vigorous 
men into the tomb to inspire their devotion.” 

She paused a moment, then resumed : 

“ Ralph’s love for me hasn’t wavered 3^et. It is as 
steadfast as ever. Baby’s birth intensified it. But 
if I linger long it will subside and grow fatigued.” 

Again she paused. He would have spoken, but 
she resumed : 

“ That seems hard for a loving husband like your- 
self to believe ? You feel no matter how great a care 


55 


Vezia might become you’d still be devoted to her ? 
But you wouldn’t; ’tisn’t human.” 

Another pause, and she went on : 

‘‘Nature never breaks her ties too soon where 
disease is at work. Slow dying life may linger until 
extinction will not provoke a tear; when those who 
love best will say in a reverent way : ‘we ought to 
be thankful her sufferings are at an end.’ They 
don’t mean that. They mean : ‘ I’m thankful she’s 
gone.’ Don’t^I understand human nature? ” 

She sank back exhausted. 

You may be right,” he replied, as the force of her 
words possessed him. “You’ve been very happy?” 

She pressed his hand, her face brightened, and she 
strove to raise herself. 

“Inexpressibly happy! God has blessed me abun- 
dantly in my husband. Oh, how good he has been 
* to me ! ” 

Her emotions choked her. She lay back on the 
cushions, closed her eyes, tears wetting her face. He 
^ drew a handkerchief and dried them gently, smooth- 
ing her hair. 

“ Yes,” he remarked, “and he’ll remain devoted to 
all your wishes.” 

She turned quickly and with an effort regained her 
voice : 

“ I know he will, and for that I want to see you. 
We’ve been preparing for the inevitable. I have a 
wish, a dear, cherished, dying wish ; and Ralph 


56 


has agreed that it may be fulfilled. Our son, our 
little Ralph, will be motherless. I want Vezia to 
rear him, and you to supervise his education. Will 
you do this for me ? ” 

“ Gladly, gladly ! I know Vezia will join in your 
wish heartily.’’ 

“ Bless you ! B-l-e-s-s — y-o-u ! ’ ’ 

She laid her face in his hand, overcome, sobbing. 

The marble clock ticked faintly, it’s golden pendu- 
lum swinging this woman’s life away. From another 
room came baby’s cooing, reaching her ears. She 
raised her head, listened to his prattle, fixed her 
eyes on the pastor’s face beseechingly, shook her 
head sadly, murmured something unintelligibly, 
dropped her face into his palm again. His prompt 
acquiescence brought her happiness that sobs and 
weeps. Her concern for the welfare of her offspring 
was excessively solicitous, as the concerns of dyings 
mothers always are. Progeneration, undertaken 
under any circumstances, brooks no denial in 
it’s exactions. Mrs. Chandler trembled with this 
desire for her child, and could not rest until she 
obtained the promise. It would have been impossi- 
ble for Vezia to have contemplated such anxiety 
as Arniita’s ; she was incapable. The day before 
Mrs. Chandler had purposely omitted refererence 
to the subject. She reflected now on the reason 
which impelled her to forbear reference to it, won- 


57 


dering if Mr. Meserve’s acquiescence was based 
upon the same reason ? Vezia had confided a secret 
to Armita which filled the invalid with joy ; a secret 
she wanted to discuss with her pastor. Would it be 
becoming ? Her delicacy was exceptional. 

“ Vezia will be very happy.^’ 

He was deeply buried in thought and scarcely 
heard her whisper, but he nodded : 

‘‘Yes.’\ 

It will make you very happy, too ? ” 

He thought she spoke of the care of her son. 

“Yes, very happy.” 

“ I’m so glad,” she murmured, stroking his hand. 
“ It makes me happy to know it’s so.” 

He nodded. 

“ Vezia is robust ? ” she remarked. 

He looked at her. Her face was slightly turned 
away. 

‘ ‘ It will prove a blessing to both of you,” she con* 
tinned. 

He concluded something had escaped his hearing. 

“ I had hoped I might live to see the day,” she 
went on. 

He thought her flighty. 

“ I feel a personal interest, you know, Vezia’s been 
so dear to me. Wouldn’t I be proud to be god- 
mother ! ” She smiled, pressed his hand gently, 
gazing toward the wall. 


58 


He watched her, unable to account for her remarks. 
She seemed lucid. He rested an elbow on his knee 
and studied her face. Was she wandering ? 

It wib all be for the best, all for the best. It will 
shed such light into your home and you’ll have so 
much more to live for, and be drawn so much more 
closely to each other. There is nothing draws hms- 
band and wife like — 

She turned and looked at him. His expression 
told her she had betrayed the secret. She was hor- 
rified at her imprudence. Then perceiving his 
bewilderment she smiled and added : 

“You mustn’t mind me. You know I say any- 
thing I’ve a mind to to you and Vezia.” 

“I’m pleased to see you smile,’’ he said. “You 
look really like yourself.” 

But something disturbed his mind. What she 
said made him think and wonder. Meanwhile Mrs. 
Chandler thought of the day she and Vezia 
exchanged secrets and she brightened and said : 

“ I often smile when I think how zealously Vezia 
and I guarded our love affairs. We were very 
diplomatic, very adroit.” 

He wondered if his wife wasn’t still diplomatic? 
The word seemed expressive. As he heard the coo- 
ings of little Ralph his heart gave great bounds ; he 
felt blood mantling his face ; an almost uncontrolla- 
ble desire to rush home and set his mind at ease. 


59 


She observed his animation and concluded he knew 
all ; but she dared ^ not again venture reference to 
what was uppermost in her mind, so inseparably 
associated with her’s and Vezia’s girlish secrets. 

Returning to his duty Mr. Meserve introduced a 
vein of religious thought. 

We miss you at church, and I miss you 
much in those personal labors you volunteered.’' 

^‘ Surround my husband with your influence,” she 
replied, “ and teach my boy the Grace his mother 
believed in and you will have faithful disciples to 
keep my good works ever before you.’^ 

” Happily, yes, in a measure ; the more so, perhaps 
since he knows it is your wish.” 

I feel the utmost peace and satisfaction in know- 
ing mine will share with your own in your solici- 
tude.” 

This remark was made with such naturalness, and 
from forgetfulness of his ignorance of matters, that 
Armita did not feel conscious of its impression ; but 
like a flash the import of her words came to him, and 
he felt unnerved, giddy. The hope of his life lived 
in her thoughtless speech. The croonings of little 
Ralph echoed in his heart, creating the thrill a man 
experiences when possible fatherhood dawns upon 
him. For Hollis Meserve to know, to be encouraged 
to believe even that he was to be a father, caused 
unbounded happiness. He could scarcely retain his 


6o 


seat so electrified was he by the thought. He wanted 
to embrace Mrs. Chandler for giving him that hope. 
Happy men have impulses to do foolish things. 
His face took on a look of accord with her predictions, 
his breast swelled with pride, he saw a picture of 
two children, one their’s, the other her’s; he heard 
the prattle of infancy in his study; he wanted to 
shout in his joy ! Professional dignity was consumed 
by delirium ; he was forgetting himself and paused 
to reflect there was confidence between him and 
this friend which had not been fully revealed, and 
could not be revealed unless he betrayed his ignor- 
ance. It was the dignified minister versus the de- 
lighted man. Propriety required he preserve deco- 
rum, so he hastened to terminate the interview 
already protracted. His leave-taking was forced and 
nervous. Mrs. Chandler observed this, forgiving his 
exuberance. With a promise to see her again in a 
day or two he hastened from the house into the 
warmth of the autumn noonday. 

His heart bursting with happiness he crossed to 
the Common and took a seat. He was too overjoyed 
to move. Under the great trees, in the cool shade 
of the western slope overlooking the parade ground, 
he sat, with bared head, tr3dng to contemplate the 
blessing. Yet, amid his exultation came a quiver of 
pain. Why had Vezia concealed this from him ? 
Why had she not hastened to share happiness with 


6i 


one most deserving to know, most interested to par- 
take of the tidings ? That she was naturally secre- 
tive did not occur to him. But that would furnish 
no excuse for her silence. He reasoned numberless 
theories for her reticence, but none were satisfactory. 
Hither and thither passed nurses attending toddling 
cherubs; trundling sleeping infants in basket car- 
riages. None escaped his observation. He scanned 
their faces, smiled upon them, guessed their ages, 
fancied their resemblance to parents. For the news- 
boy, the bootblack, the urchin by the gate, he had a 
word, a smile, a penny. But he could not help won- 
dering if their mothers kept knowledge of their con- 
ception from their fathers ; and asked himself if that 
was natural for a mother to do ? Absorption of 
theology had left him little time for penetration of 
human nature. He knew nothing of the caprices of 
promissory mothers. His was a father’s jubilation, 
extravagant, wild, rugged, fierce. His glee made 
him long to be boisterous ; but upon his uprising 
fancies fell the damp of marvel why Vezia had not 
taken him into her confidence ? Twice he started 
from the bench to hurry home and embrace her and 
rejoice with her. A little tot fell right in front of 
him and cut her face. He wept from fright. A 
couple of children playing with a ball amused him 
so he forgot himself. When he reflected his judg- 
ment told him to wait ; to let her volunteer the con- 


62 


fidence ; to believe she was natural; and so on, conjur- 
ing whimsical fallacies to spare his wife well-meant 
congratulations. At length, filled with a joy that 
was tempered with prudence, he sauntered from the 
mall, and reached home. 

His wife was out. 



“THE GREATEST CRIME IN THE WORLD.“ 


“And the Dragon was wroth with the woman, and went to make 
war with the remnant of her seed."— Revelation, 13, 17. 


Everything in nature was bright and mellow the 
morning of Mrs. Chandler’s funeral. A perfect day 
for farewell to perfect clay. Thus it impressed 
Mr. Meserve as he paced his study arranging thoughts 
for the church obsequies. How fitting it seemed ? In 
a ruby sunset her soul took flight, her husband 
holding her hand, her e3"es upon the unflecked 
azure, a pet wren tweeting in the open window, her 
babe prattling as if it’s innocent happiness sped her 
on the eternal journe}^ One wish of her’s was 
ungratified. She wanted Vezia. Mr. Chandler sent 
a pathetic message imploring her, and Mr. Meserve 
supplemented an imperative demand; but she did 
not come. The dark eyes wandered from window to 
door watching for her to enter. They halted, 
fluttered, stood still forever. Her last breath 
fashioned Vezia’s name, and her last thought was of 
her. Something oppressed her she wanted to 


64 


arrange before her departure. Thus it seemed to 
the pastor watching closely while he read and 
repeated favorite portions of Scripture. When 
he saw the mist gathering and the wavering 
eagerness of expression, he felt something was 
unfinished. She turned to him and tried to speak. 
After she was dead he longed for those words. He 
felt he should have he ard them. They were some- 
thing about Vezia, maybe a message to her. But 
she died, the words unspoken, the wish ungratified. 
This morning, while collecting thoughts he must 
voice from the pulpit, there stole into his brain 
memory of the dying woman and that last, longing, 
lingering look. 

When Mr. Meserve returned home after Mrs. 
Chandler’s death, he found his wife prostrated, in 
bed. He could not under such circumstances, reprove 
her for ignoring repeated and urgent calls from her 
friend’s -bedside ; but he marvelled she had so sud- 
denly become indisposed. When he left her she 
seemed in good health and spirits. Vezia’ s vigor 
was remarkable, her buoyancy surmounting; and 
this sudden prostration alarmed him. Her anguish 
over the death of her friend and her protestations 
that it had entirely unnerved her, appeased his 
fancies and obliged him to excuse her absence. 
Still he could not forget Armita^s desire. It was 
not delirium. Her death was composed and rational. 


65 


It was intense eagerness ; responsibility for some- 
thing ; speech lost forever in death’s muteness. He 
detected an unwillingness on his wife^s part to visit 
Mrs. Chandler toward the last. For a few days 
prior to dissolution she had kept away. He could 
not forget how strangely anxious Armita had looked, 
nor the unsaid something on her lips. Vezia ex- 
pressed no desire to visit the house after death. She 
ordered flowers and made inquiries regarding the 
exercises; but evinced no wish to look upon the face 
of the departed. Nor did she ask for little Ralph, 
made one of the minister’s family. Mr. Meserve 
fathomed every caprice to account for this strange 
conduct. He went so far as to attribute it to her 
pregnancy. Her manner was unaccountable, and 
when, this morning, she declined to arise, saying she 
was not strong enough to endure the ordeal of the 
services, he was speechless ! He could not disabuse 
his mind of an undercurrent. There was something 
below the surface^ behind her words. Hence, as he 
strove to conform his mind to the duty of the hour, to 
collect the virtues of the departed for a lesson be.side 
the bier, the qualities of Mrs. Chandler’s life appeared 
diametrically opposite those he was compelled to 
confess to be his wife’s. 

My dear,” he said, sitting on the side of the bed 
and taking her hand, “ I cannot reconcile myself to 


66 


your reluctance to participate in Armita’s obsequies. 
Why have you shrunk from these past few days ? 

In the dim light of the chamber he could not see 
the look in her eyes; nor is it probable he would 
have comprehended had he seen the way her eyes 
closed and her lips compressed, as people use eyes 
and lips when they have a determination fixed the}- 
dare not share. 

“I’m not well!’’ she replied peevishly. “You 
oughtn’t to insist upon my doing what is not best for 
me I I don’t feel equal to the publicity of the occa- 
sion ! ” 

There was lurking implication in these words a 
more astute student of human nature would have 
analyzed. The shrinking from publicity meant some- 
thing. He was incompetent to analyze it. He 
kissed her affectionately and started for the Chand- 
lers’ . 

Left to her meditations and resolutions, Vezia lay 
for a time in study. To describe her feelings is im- 
possible. She paid her last visit four days before the 
death, when conversation was possible, when it had 
for theme approaching events for herself. Vezia had 
scarcel}^ confided in Armita and seen her jo}' 
when she regretted having spoken. The cause of 
this regret was a hideous resolution ; a base, unholy, 
cruel determination she dared not announce. That 
resolution slunk into her mind afraid to show itself ; 


67 


too malicious for confidence, too brutal for com- 
panionship. It was the germinated recollection of 
the eleven ghosts of injustice and usurpation which 
bore her family name ; who had the same father ; who 
had forced her from home. It was also the out- 
growth of Armita’s sacrifice. There was some fear 
in it, some dread of transmitting, some horror of ple- 
bian composition. In fervor of confidence she told 
Armita of her pregnane}^ Instantly she was sorry, 
because its consummation was already shaken by 
frightful plans she shivered to entertain. Now as she 
lay and heard the voice of little Ralph in the adjoin- 
ing room, his mother’s sufferings and sacrifices 
appalled her ! Reminded of how she had been forced 
from her home by an unfeeling step-parent, how could 
she know, should she die, that Mr. Meserve would 
not marr}" again, and perhaps her child be treated as 
she had been, and also forced from home ? She was 
ashamed to stand beside the bier of her dead friend 
with such resolutions in her heart. She feared, they 
might be dispersed. She might not have courage to 
execute them. She had put her husband from her 
thought, ignoring his wishes, excluding him from 
the purpose, glad to be left alone to execute it. She 
was not unmindful of the danger, nor of the sin, nor 
of the shame ; but, womanlike, she dared. She 
had chosen the present occasion because certain of 
her husband’s absence. The knowledge she must be 


68 


a mother to Armita’s son made her more eager to 
carry out her determination. She schooled herself 
to the critical. It was no shock to her refinement ; 
not forbidding ; she had no fear of consequences, no 
remorse of conscience. She was simply sorry she 
married. She dreaded being like her step-mother, or 
like the mother of the cripple. She did not stop to 
consider that what she was about to do might result 
fatally, or produce exactly what she despised in the 
leer-eyed cripple. She did not feel it was unholy, 
unworthy a wife, unbecoming a woman, criminal in 
a mother ! She simply felt she must ; she resolved 
she would; and she DID. 

When Mr. Meserve turned away from the grave 
and arm-in-arm with the husband re-entered the car- 
riage and was driven back to town, there was some- 
thing indefinably disagreeable in his mind. He was 
oppressed ; felt he was going to hear bad news, as 
one feels one’s thumb prickle. In the silence of the 
mourner’s carriage he had opportunity for reflection. 
His mind dwelt upon an oppressiveness which im- 
pelled him homeward. 

The carriage left him at his door. After speaking 
a few words of consolation to the bereaved husband 
he entered his home. He went first to the study, 
changed his coat and sat at the desk. But he was 


69 

restless, uneas}^; and arose and sought his wife’s 
chamber. 

The door was locked. 

He rapped. Again, more loudly. All was silent. 
Alarm possessed him ! He called to the servant, 
asking if Mrs. Meserve had gone out ? She had not. 
He rapped again ; and receiving no reply, pressed 
his shoulder against the door and burst it in ! 

Upon the floor lay Vezia, clad only in her night 
robe. Her attitude was one of intense agony. 
Quickly raising her and laying her on the bed a 
dreadful horror crossed his mind. He sent the ser- 
vant for their physician, while laboring himself for 
restoration. In a few moments the doctor arrived 
and shortly Vezia opened her eyes to burst into 
tears. The men looked at each other. Their intel- 
ligence was mutual. Mr. Meserve was about to 
retire to his study when his eye rested upon an open 
parcel upon the dressing case. He started to examine 
it, when the doctor approached, picked it up and 
scrutinized it closely. The husband felt cold and 
giddy, and thought of the hurrying messenger boy 
as the doctor fixed cold, calm eyes on his face, 
which said volumes. Neither man spoke. The 
only sounds were little Ralph’s prattle and Mrs. 
Meserve’ s sobs. 


70 


UNFORGIVEN. 


When the unhappy husband raised his head from 
his desk hours afterward he, too, was sincerely sorry 
he had married. He was bruised. His heart, brain, 
nerves were lame and hurt. He was more than dis- 
appointed, he was distrustful. He could account for 
his wife’s action upon no other ground than an 
endeavor to hide unfaithfulness, to destroy evidence 
of treachery. The more he thought his belief in 
her deceit deepened. He had heard of dishonorable 
women doing what she had done,, but he could not 
believe a true wife capable of such a thing. It was 
agony to his highmindedness, a terrible wound to 
his pride, a blow to his honor. 

There was a tap on the door and the physician 
entered. 

“Well?” 

Doctor Bird shook his head. 

“ She’s in a very bad way. I*don’t want to alarm 
you, but be prepared for what may occur. There 
are chances she may not recover.’’ 


71 


Not a pang went to the husband’s heart. He felt 
stolid unconcern. Had she been at that instant in 
the shadow of death he could have gone to her, 
fondled her, wept over her. But he was sure that 
feeling was going to wear away lingering over her 
sin. 

“I don’t know as I care much,” he muttered drop- 
ping his head into his hand. 

Oh, you mustn’t talk so ! ” said the doctor, halt- 
ing in his walk about the room. This has unnerv- 
ed you ! You’re excited ! Try and look at it ration- 
ally.’^ 

“ Rationally ! ” exclaimed Mr. Meserve, looking 
at the doctor contemptuously. Do you suppose I 
can’t see ? Do you think me blind ? ’ ’ 

‘'No, no. But you’re too sensitive to circum- 
stances. You’re inexperienced in such matters, 
Hollis,” and the doctor smiled in the fixed face of the 
minister. 

Mr. Meserve was undesirous of continuing conver- 
sation oh the subject. The doctor strode back and 
forth, waiting to be interrogated. Suddenly Mr. 
Meserve looked up. 

“ Is this any proof of infidelity ? ” 

“ None in the least,” was the ready reply. “You 
have the same selfideception husbands often indulge, 
doing grievous injustice to innocent women. Your 
wife is thoroughly true.” 


72 


“ Do you think so ? ” surprised to hear the doctor’s 
assurance. 

Doctor Bird looked at Mr. Meserve, amazed at his 
persistent suspicion. 

‘‘ Do I think so ? What leads you to think differ- 
ently ? Why do you put your wife on trial at the 
bar of your imagination ? ” 

Indications ! Indications ! They are convincing 
to me ! Beside, there’s no other explanation ? ” 

The doctor smiled as he walked. 

“ Two ver}" unsustainable conclusions. I’ve talked 
with your wife.” 

Mr. Meserve glanced up ; but when the doctor 
hesitated, he shrugged his shoulders, prepared to 
doubt whatever explanation might be offered. The 
doctor noticed this, stopped, leaned against the desk, 
putting his hands under his coat-tails, and looked at 
Mr. Meserve with a quizzical, penetrating gaze. 

“ Hollis, you are either perverse, or inconceivably 
innocent. I don’t believe you understand your wife. 
I doubt if you ever understood her. Such a thing’s 
possible, you’ll admit ? ’ ’ 

Mr. Meserve kept his eyes on the floor, leaning 
back in his chair attentively. 

‘^I don’t know that I’m ready to concede your 
premises or to accept the extenuation you’re pre- 
pared to offer.” 


73 


“ Oh, I’m not going to offer any extenuation. I 
disapprove of women’s freaks ; but you’ve always 
seemed to me to be totally ignorant of the female 
sex.” 

guess I am,” replied the husband, nodding his 
head discouragedly. 

‘‘Well, has it never occurred to you that it is a 
husband’s duty to know as much about his wife as 
she knows about herself? ” 

“I wasn't aware that was his province.” 

“There you are. It’s such husbands as you, who 
don’t feel they ought to know any more about their 
wives than their wives are willing to tell them, who 
are fooled.” 

“Fooled!” exclaimed Mr. Meserve, starting up 
in his chair. “ Then you’ll admit I’ve been fooled ? 

“Yes, you’ve been deceived.” 

The Doctor saw the husband’s countenance fall^ 
and thought he might be misunderstood. 

“ But when I say deceived, Hollis, I don’t mean 
you’ve been deceived hi your wife. You’ve only 
been deceived by her.” 

“ Deceived by her ? ” 

“Yes, and by her associates.” 

The doctor had resumed his walk about the study. 
Mr. Meserve followed him with his eyes. 

‘ ‘ Associates ? ” 


“ Yes, advisers.” 


74 


Advisers ? ” 

Yes. Don’t you know that married women know- 
ing their husbands are blind take, counsel with other 
women ? ” 

The minister shook his head. 

The doctor explained : Oh, yes, that’s an ever^^ 

day occurrence. If you had drawn your wife into 
your confidence by display of knowledge of woman- 
kind every married woman respects in her husband, 
this wouldn’t have occurred.” 

Conviction of logic dawned upon the husband. 

And she has been wrongly advised ? ” 

Beyond doubt. She’s not confessed to me by 
whom, but I think I could name the party.” 

Who ? ” 

When he asked this question remembrance of 
Armita’s anxiety in her last moments flashed across 
Mr. Meserve’s mind. He trembled to hear the name. 

‘‘Mrs. Falling,” said the doctor, quietly. 

Mr. Meserve drew a long breath, nodding his head 
thankfully. 

“A very constant visitor here, a member of my 
church, an old-time friend.” 

“They’re always old-time friends, Hollis, and ex- 
perienced, too. Yes, I’m sure it was Mrs. Falling.” 

“ You are her physician ? ” enquired Mr. Meserve. 

The doctor flashed him a look which asked : 
“ Where do you think my professional principle is ? ” 


75 


“ Oh, no. She used to be a friend of 77iy wife’s.” 

The clergyman nodded his head understandingly ; 
leaned his elbows on his knees ; grew less uneasy ; 
began to comprehend. 

“I don’t think Mrs. Falling has much need for 
doctors. She’s very skillful.” , 

With this remark Doctor Bird passed into the 
hall on his return to the sick’s room. 

Mr. Meserve remained in meditation. The utter- 
ances of the doctor had not fallen upon a stupid 
mind. Had those remarks made him less indifferent 
to his wife’s recovery? He wasn’t prepared to say. 
He felt chagrined for being preyed upon ; vexed for 
being ignorant of the ordinary concerns of matrimo- 
nial life. He grew anxious she should escape, and 
felt determined to acquire knowledge of woman- 
kind to be able to cope with his wife’s advisers. As 
he thought this over he became exceedingly anxious 
she should recover, impatient to demonstrate his 
capability to manage a household. He became alive 
to the influence of the widow, of the menace to his 
domesticity, of the ruin she had plotted against his 
happiness. Strange recollections were revived. 
Gossip of Colonel Falling’s brave death upon the 
Bull Run battle field always accompanied whispers 
concerning his widow ; her fondness for the society 
of young women ; their admiration for her ; her con- 
spicuous avoidance of male society ; her proclama- 


76 


tion she’d never marry again ; her abandonment ot 
her son by sending him off to sea. All these came 
back to Mr. Meserve and he wondered he hadn’t 
noticed Mrs. Falling’s intimacy with his wife. 

The doctor entered, coat and hat in hand. 

“I’ll be back later. She’s quite easy.” 

He was gone before the husband framed a question 
he wished to propound, lapsing into contemplation 
he realized the necessity of establishing dignity as a 
husband. In the face of the effront perpetrated he 
must be self-assertive. He fell into popular error 
and saw only his wounded pride. He grew selfish 
to forget his chagrin. He wanted her to become 
hearty, strong, vigorous again that he might punish 
her. He lost Christian charity. He ignored her 
claim to pardon for this mistake which might have 
cost her her life. He became arbitrary at heart. He 
became immovably determined to wield the rule of 
iron a negligent husband feels sensitive to when his 
negligence dawns upon him and he wants to lay it 
upon his wife. He knew he ought to go and see 
her and comfort her and forgive her. But he was too 
stubborn. That would be soft, weak, yielding. He 
called to the nurse to bring Ralph to him and sent 
her to sit by Mrs. Meserve. With the tiny bit 
of innocence on his knee; looking into the living 
reflection of the face he had that day laid away for- 
ever> the dead mother’s virtues magnified. Para- 


77 


mount her motherhood. That stood out the virtue 
his wife had shunned, abused, failed in. Tittle 
Ralph nestled into his arms, and his tugging sprawl 
delighted him ! He could have held the child for- 
ever. How the parental appetite grew on him ! 
How he pressed the human atom to his heart envious 
of his father ! This was the most inflammable fuel he 
could have fed the resentment toward his wife. 
The child^s touch excited his abhorance of her sin. 
The longer he held him the more he angered toward 
her. Alarmed at his feelings he called the nurse and 
resigned Ralph to her care. As the baby face disap- 
peared down the hall he turned and closed the door, 
muttering : 

“ There would have been two to train.’’ 

Slowly he paced the room as the doctor had done, 
but moved by different feelings. How different ! 
The clear insight the doctor had of the situation was 
very different from the view of the wounded, humil- 
iated husband. The situation merely annoyed the 
doctor. He disliked his patients to be thus pros- 
trated. He wasn’t a religious man ; although his wife 
was of the Burr street church. The close contact of 
medical professors with human nature and it’s mul- 
titudinous frailties tends to steel them against 
emotions. Doctor Bird’s practice was largely among 
the Burr street congregation, and he knew more of 
their private lives than any other single individual. 


78 


certainly more than their pastor. This enabled him to 
speak avSsuredly about Mrs. Falling, and her influence 
over Mrs. Meserve. Not that he was blind to the 
fact that, had Mrs. Falling not been in Mrs. Meserve’s 
confidence, she would have acted upon her own 
impulses and the same incident would have tran- 
spired. Mrs. Meserve told him everything. She 
confessed her dread of the fate of her step mother ; 
her horror of Armita's motherhood with it’s seeds of 
insidious disease ; her recollection of the cripple ; her 
remembrance of Mrs. Falling’s remark about blue 
blood. It was this reference to Mrs. Falling led 
the doctor to enquire what part she played in the 
disastrous result ? And he learned that which did 
not surprise him, but warranted him in admonishing 
Mr. Meserve that the widow’s influence was detri- 
mental to his domestic happiness. He had been 
family physician to the Fallings in by-gone days, 
until professional honor obliged him to sever that 
relationship. He regarded 3^oung Frank Falling a 
spark burning in life despite his mother’s influence 
at extinction. He conceived for the woman a 
justifiable antipathy. He knew the havoc she had 
wrought in many lives. Her influence with Mrs. 
Meserve had only been auxiliary, though; abet- 
ting a determination previously conceived. It 
wasn’t dread of Vezia’s not rallying made the 
doctor uneasy. It was knowledge she had under- 


79 


gone contamination every such event accomplishes 
in woman. The terrible sequences are an indelible 
blight, which Holy ‘Writ pronounces the wrath of 
the dragon, waging war unto the remnant of her 
seed. Yet Doctor Bird made it a rule never to 
discuss this point ; but he had never known it to fail 
that the brutality of such acts found expression in 
subsequent conception. The meagerness of Mrs. 
Falling’s influence increased his solicitude; for he 
saw that Mrs. Meserve’s own perverse notions were 
mainly responsible for what had happened. 

Mr. Meserve did not entertain an inkling of all 
this. But he formed determinations from an entirely 
different standpoint. He felt it to be utterly impos- 
sible for him to feel toward his wife as he had in the 
past. He must be content to rear the orphaned son 
of Armita and banish the cherished wish of his life ; 
the wish Armita outlined to Vezia that spring after- 
noon; the wish Vezia realized as Armita told her 
she would, but which she hadn’t the moral courage 
to execute. It was a struggle on his part which 
terminated in this resolution. It meant everything 
to him. It was overturning human hope, and pour- 
ing into the river of despair every crystal of promise. 
Young, sanguine, devoted husbands do not form 
such determinations without seasoning their cup 
with bitterness. It is hard tearing the chords of a 


8o 


man’s heart, uprooting the tendrils of his being ; but 
no man with self respect can overlook deliberate 
insult to his manhood and to his honor as a husband. 
That was Meserve’s position. Neither Christianity, 
•nor sense of right, nor conjugal fidelity, permitted his 
condoning so heinous a wrong. He was not unlike 
other men in this. They don’t always take the same 
heroic measures, but they are none the less exercised, 
none the less disappointed, none the less disgusted! 
Oft’ times there are reasons which forbid severe ad- 
ministration of domestic authority. They condone, 
forgive, appear to forget. But the wound never 
heals. However thorough may seem the adhesion 
of domestic breaches a scar remains. Mr. Meserve 
lacked worldly diplomacy, which prompts a wronged 
husband to overlook his wife’s cowardice ; nor had 
he any ulterior point to gain by dissembling. He 
had set his heart on being a father. Her tacit acqui- 
escence left him unprepared for this deceit. His 
resentment was bitter. He reasoned quickly and 
decisively, and resolved irrevocably. Henceforth he 
and Vezia must live differently. He owed this to 
his manhood, to his profession, to his self-respect. 
Such a woman as she could not be wife to him. 

This fixed intent occupying him he halted an in- 
stant at her door as he noiselessly retired to his 
chamber. The doctor was there, talking. She was 


8i 


repentant and weeping. He was advising her 
kindly and wisely. Their voices were audible. She 
was confidential. When he had heard all he could 
bear, he wearily ascended the stairs to his room. 


82 


TEMPTATION. 


From enforced retirement Vezia emerged to find 
everything desolate and forbidding. It was not a 
shock, nor a surprise. She knew her husband suffi- 
ciently to comprehend his attitude. Confidence in 
successful secrecy had made her audacious. She arose 
to meet indifference and coldness. She was rebel- 
lious. She felt lonely, neglected, ill-treated. She 
did not relish the society of Armita's boy, but she 
must have diversion, so she kept him with her until 
he became a necessity to her existence. Every day 
Mr. Chandler called to see his son, and every after- 
noon his carriage topk Vezia and Ralph driving. 
Mr. Chandler did not close his house ; and frequently 
invited Mr. and Mrs. Meserve to bring Ralph and 
dine with him. The guests were always Vezia and 
the bo}^^ ; never Mr. Meserve. 

Close study of Vezia’ s manner told Mr. Chandler 
something was wrong between the pastor and his 
wife. Her devotion to his son won his sympathy 
and interest. Conscious of something affecting her 


83 


happiness, he went out of his way to exhibit kind- 
ness, and to indicate appreciation of devotion to his 
motherless child. At first he was prompted to this 
by purest pity for an unhapp}’ woman, whose sad 
face and dejected air betrayed her state of mind to 
the watchful man of affairs. While she was be- 
coming attached to the boy, Mr. Chandler was 
acquiring an interest in her which developed from 
gratitude into ardent passion. There was nothing 
premeditated in this. It was voluntary, irresistible. 
For months he fought it successfully ; but daily 
sight of her grieved countenance, and multiplying 
evidences of her husband’s neglect, preyed upon his 
mind until he couM no longer repress curiosity to 
fathom the mystery. He did not venture without 
counting cost, risk, penalty. He knew invasion 
of a man’s domestic circle, be the plea what it ma}", 
is unwarrantable. But Vezia so controlled and 
occupied him, and her plight appealed so strongly 
to his sympathy, and her devotion to his child so 
endeared her to him, he could not withstand temp- 
tation to cultivate her confidence. 

They had returned from a drive. The nurse took 
the boy from the table to put him to sleep, leaving 
Mr. Chandler and Mrs. Meserve sipping wine and 
chatting pleasantly over a call they paid in Brook- 
line. He suddenly placed his elbows on the table 
and gazing at her said : 


84 


“ Why are you so unhappy ? ” 

She flashed her blue eyes into his a moment, then 
dropped them, blushed, and stammered : 

‘^I’m not unhappy.’^ 

“ Yes, you are, and you have been unhappy ever 
since ’Mita died. She was very dear to you, Vezia ? ” 
She nodded. 

‘‘ Have you missed her so much ? ” 

“ I miss her very much,” she replied ; but he knew 
that did not express her mind. 

“You have been very good to Ralph, Vezia.” 

‘ ‘ He has become very dear to me.” 

“Hasn’t he wrought harm between you and 
Hollis?” 

“No,” she replied, firmly, “he has not” 

“ I feared he had ; for you and he don’t seem as 
happy as you used to be ? ” 

It was only this little perception that was needed ; 
something to uncover the wells of those eyes and 
let the torrent of misery forth. She dropped her 
head upon her arm on the table and burst into tears. 
Carried completely away by this exhibition of grief, 
so unexpected ; transported by pity for the woman 
who had given herself for his child; he sprang to his 
feet, hurried around the table, and caught her in his 
arms and pressed her to his breast. In the bewilder- 
ing pathos of the situation he was unmindful of pro- 
priety. This woman, stamped with unspeakable 


85 


suffering had been the truest of mothers to his boy. 
Her outburst wrung his heart. The compromising 
character of the situation dawned upon him, but her 
trembling arms encircled his neck, her quivering 
lips pressed close to his breast, completely disarmed 
every impulse to retrace. He felt the hunger in 
her embrace ; the starving clutch of her arms tremb- 
ling to be caressed; and he caught up her wet face 
and kissed every feature. She looked into his eyes 
gratefully. To her craving nature those kisses were 
as water to a parched throat. She stared at him ap- 
pealingly, as if it lay in his power to bless her. She 
was weak and fainting ; must succomb to her 
emotions. Thought of what they were daring came 
upon them and they withdrew from close embrace 
to gaze at each other. She looked alarmed ; he 
abashed. But they did not separate. By degrees, 
to once again partake of the delicious sympathy of 
a fleeting moment, their arms entwined ; their faces 
came closer ; their lips met in deliberate, prolonged 
expression of trust and fidelity, which the world de- 
nominates harshly. An hour elapsed in this man- 
ner, without word, without interruption of caress, 
without cessation of happiness. Then, calmed by 
vehemence of expression, he arose and took a seat 
beside her. She nestled to him. No longer was 
there any pained look in her face. She smiled, 
clasped his hand in hers, leaned forward, gazing into 


86 


his face, slave to the rapture of discovered affinity. 
There was something beautiful in this innocence 
of infidelity. It was womanly, spontaneous. It 
appeared to her a natural drift of things. It 
had to be; was inevitable. Throughout her life, 
until this moment, she had curbed emotion. She 
could do so no longer. Through the medium of 
little Ralph his father and proxy mother were drawn 
to each other, with no valorous husband to stay 
temptation. In the months Mr. Meserve had been 
punishing his wife, she had been training her indig- 
nant heart to punish him ; and Mr. Chandler’s spon- 
taneous love placed the weapon in her hand. This 
mutual revelation was more powerful than anything 
premeditated could have been. When he found 
speech he told her of his lonely heart. It found 
sympathy in her ignored, deprived nature. They 
were absolved by their intoxicated consciences, and 
pledged to one another b^^ that bond which is as 
imperious as^it is lawlesss. She clung to him be- 
cause he slaked her thirst. He gave her the devo- 
tion she craved above everything else in life. 

“No, it is not Ralph has wrought our unhappi- 
ness,” she said, reluctantly answering his repeated 
query. ‘ ‘ I’ve been the cause of our estrangement 
myself; but don’t ask me to explain. I confess it’s 
all my fault; but, oh, he’s punished me ! ” She set 
her lips remembering what she had endured. 


87 


“ And you so capable of affection ? I cannot 
understand how this can be ? I had hoped ere this 
to see you, too, a mother ? ” 

She dropped her head on his breast and sobbed. 

He knew he had touched the chord. 

“ And is this to go on indefinitely ? he asked. 

‘‘God knows she cried. “It cannot ! Oh, I^m 
so miserable, so unhappy ! What will, become of 
me ? Oh, Ralph, Ralph, I cannot be treated as I 
have been ! It will kill me ! iVe done wrong to be 
so weak tonight, but I couldn’t help it ! / couldn't 

help it ! ’’ 

She lay in his arms, a fluttering, wounded heart. 

All was still within the great mansion. In that 
dining room sombre shadows gathered, as there came 
to these two souls the appalling force of the irresist- 
ible. The hush and dimness extended hands to 
lurking temptation. They felt it encompassing them 
as men and women feel the stealthy approach of 
sweet sensibilities that will master them. As the 
shadows deepened, their ensnarement gathered 
until the chasm suddenly yawned at Vezia’s feet! 
She sprang up and fled from the room ! Into the hall 
she ran, calling the nurse to follow her with the 
child ! Out into the street and hurriedly homeward I 

Her eyes fixed before her, her face burning with 
terror, her breath coming shorter and quicker, Vezia 


88 




rushed up the steps, pushed past the servant, flew up 
the stairs to her husband’s study. Never had she in- 
truded without knocking; but she bolted in, and be- 
fore he had time to turn in his chair, she cast her- 
self at his feet, trembling and hysterical. Moved by 
the suddenness and novelty of this proceeding, Mr. 
Meserve raised her in his arms, and wheeling an 
arm chair before the hearth, drew her into his lap. 
He drew her head against his breast, soothed and 
fondled her as in the old days, when it was a hap- 
piness. Now it was only a dut 3 ^ She was ill, 
nervous, and made an appeal to him. Touch is 
messenger of the soul. Vezia could tell her/husband’s 
caresses lacked heart. He was bestowing them be- 
cause he felt he ought to. She started up and looked * 
him in the face. 

“ I’ve been held as you are holding me ! I’ve been 
caressed as you’re caressing me ! I’ve been kissed, 
hvX you don’t kiss me ! Oh, Hollis ! Hollis ! Hollis !” 

A shiver passed through him. She must be be- 
reft of reason ! He was bewildered ! 

After this vehement confession Vezia sank into his 
arms and moaned ; swaying and holding her head in 
her hands. Before he recovered she exclaimed : 

“Hollis, I’ve been tempted! I’ve almost fallen! 
I’m in danger 1 Help me ! Save me ! Save your 
wife, Hollis ! ” 


89 


Poor, dazed, bewildered Meserve ! He did not 
know what to make of her. 

Hush, dear,” he whispered, affecting a serenity^ 
that exasperated her. 

Hush ! ” she repeated, dropping to the floor at 
his feet and clasping his knees frantically. “ I tell 
you, Hollis Meserve, A^ou’re driving me to sin ! Do 
you think any woman can bear this treatment? 
Mark what T say ! You’re driving me, me, ME — 
your wife — your Vezia — who has always been a true, 
faithful wife — you’re driving me into the arms of 
another ! YOU HAVE DRIVEN ME THERE! ” 
She shrieked this fearful sentence, and it 
seemed to arouse the dormant vitality of the man. 
He grew pale; fastened his eyes upon her; caught 
her in his arms pleadingly. 

^^Who? Tell me, Vezia ? Who? What do you 
mean ? Who has dared — ” 

‘‘Never! You vShall never know! He’s noble,, 
true ! He has made me love him as I love my ex- 
istence ! I’ll never betray him ! Never utter his 
name ! He ha's tempted me 1 I would willing!}' 
expire in his embrace at this moment ! You hear 
me, Hollis ! I love him so I would give my life to 
be his ! But I’m yours 1 'You must take me ! keep 
me 1 protect me from him and from myself ! ” 

Completely exhausted by this declamation she fell 
upon her face. AcrOvSS his mind came sweep of sus- 


90 


( 


picion. Disregarding her condition, zealous only to 
satisfy his doubt, HBfceaned over her and demanded, 
with deliberate emphasis : 

‘‘Is your lover Ralph Chandler?” 

“ NO ! ” 

Then she fainted. 



# 


91 


PART THREE. 


Thk Wrath of The Dragon. 

Two ladies and a young gentleman seated upon the 
broad veranda of a stately mansion situate in a for- 
est of maples, remote from the highway. It was a 
late July afternoon. They occasionally peered be- 
tween the trees when the shrill whistle of a locomo- 
tive was heard. In the distance could be seen a 
little lead-colored depot where way trains stopped. 
Evidently some one was expected ; for a liveried 
coachman stood beside a brightly painted drag, to 
which hostlers were hitching a pair of blooded cobs. 

“ You’d better hurry, Dan,” exclaimed the young 
man, addressing the coachman, from the end of the 
porch where he had sauntered, leisurely puffing a 
cigarette and throwing back the lapels of his white 
flannel jacket, exposing a negligee of blue silk. 
‘‘The up train has just left Lowell.” 

The coachman touched his hat, sprang onto the 
box, cracked his whip and the lawn was clouded in 
dust as the spirited horses dashed into the road. 


92 ^ 

“If father isn’t on that train I don’t believe he’ll 
come np tonight,’’ continued Mr. Ralph Chandler, 
Jr., resuming his seat in the rattan rocker and lean- 
ing over to watch his team of favorite ponies trotting 
down the pike toward the depot. 

“Oh, he’ll not fail to come!” exclaimed the 
younger of the ladies, raising her eyes from the An- 
gora kitten she was petting. “ He promised to take 
us to the boat race tonight. Who do you think 
will win ? ” 

“ I’d be inclined to bet on the Belvideres,” replied 
young Mr. Chandler, intent on the train drawing up 
to the depot. 

“ Their colors are red, aren’t they ? ” 

“Yes. There’s father! He’s just getting into 
the carriage.” 

This remark aroused the elder lady ; who raised 
herself languidly in her chair, adjusting her glasses 
to catch a glimpse of the approaching carriage. 
Despite her silvered hair and changed figure, Vezia 
Meserve was too individual to leave opportunity for 
query. She was attired in white. In her luxurious 
tresses of mingled silver and gold, a jewelled sword ; 
and at her throat a single gem of great beauty. 
She was considerably stouter than formerly ; her 
face fuller; her cheeks more brilliant; her entire ap- 
pearance denoting luxury and indolence. 


93 


The young lady by her side was unmistakably 
her daughter. The same hair, Vezia^s former girlish 
figure, but her father’s eyes and pose of head. Her 
features were as delicately chiselled as her mother’s, 
but there were depth and penetration of eyes which 
were neither father’s nor mother’s. They were origi- 
nal ; and while, at first glance, they passed for liquid 
fullness of orbs, closer scrutiny showed a flash and 
unrest not agreeable. Her voice was her father’s; 
rich, full, resonant ; capable of imperiousness with her 
mother’s spirit and force to give it ring of authority. 

“Is your father accompanied by any one?” en- 
quired Mrs. Meserve, adjusting her glasses to see 
more plainl}^ It seems to me there are two per- 
sons in the carriage.” 

“ No,” replied Ralph, as the carriage wheeled into 
the driveway, “ only father and Dan.” 

As the drag drew up to the steps Mr. 
Chandler, grayed and portly, wearing his beard 
closely cropped, alighted with the difficulty of a 
mature man who lives heartily. Ralph ran down 
and assisted him. Mrs. Meserve walked to the top 
of the steps, a smile on her handsome face, a tender- 
ness in the blue eyes that peered through the glasses 
at the millionaire. But Beatrice did not rise. She 
watched the meeting between her mother and Mr. 
Chandler, and there was something in her look 
which did not indicate a pleased frame of mind. 


94 


‘‘By Jove!’’ shouted the arrival in a brusque, 
ringing voice, “ how cool you all look I Goodness ! 
but it’s been a scorcher in town today ! Where’s 
Ross ? I want a claret punch 1 ROvSS ! ” 

“I’ll get it for you,” said Mrs. Meserve, folding 
her fan and disappearing through the hall. 

Beatrice’s eyes followed her mother. There was a 
sneer on her lips.' 

Mr. Chandler threw off his coat, and dropped into 
a huge arm chair about which three enormous mas- 
tiffs clambered and barked. 

“ Beatrice says you promised to go over with us 
tonight to the boat race,” said Ralph. 

Mr. Chandler looked at the young lady, a moment, 
intently. 

“ So I did. But not one step will I go unless Miss 
Haughtiness gives me a kiss.” 

The girl arose, a sweet smile (clearly affected) on 
her face and tripped over to the big chair, perched 
herself on the arm, put her hand on the fleshy, florid 
neck of the over-heated mill-owner, and said : 

“ Now what sort of a kiss, please ? ” 

“Don’t you know?” asked Mr. Chandler, strain- 
ing his plethoric neck to look in her face. 

“I don’t believe I do,” she replied, smiling in 
return. 

“Well, not too long, nor too brief; moist, soft, be- 


95 


witching; just such a kiss as youM give any youn^ 
man like me ! ” 

Sh^ laughed and put her lips to his as if anxious 
to be done as quickly as possible. 

‘‘Now we go to the boat race; that’s certain I 
My ! but that was daintily done ! Ah, here’s my 
punch! Why do you rush about and get yourself 
all heated when Ross could have gotten it just as 
well ? ” 

Mrs. Meserve handed him the tray with a glass of 
tempting punch upon it. He cast up into her face 
an expression of happiness and pride. 

“ I’ve hardly moved out of my chair all day,” was 

4 

her reply, as if to apologize for doing butler’s work ; 
and at the same time confessing it was a pleasure. 

Beatrice retired from the porch. Ralph went onto 
the lawn to play with the dogs. Mr. Chandler 
leaned back in his chair and sipped his drink, while 
Mrs. Meserve sat opposite, watching him and chat- 
ting of household matters. 

The existing order of things was the result of that 
evolution for which life’s unaccountable vicissitudes 
are responsible. Nineteen years had elapsed since 
the fateful evening when a tempted wife grovelled 
at the feet of her husband, bade him repent his 
harshness and save her from the weakness of herself 
and the passion of another. That appeal had been 
fruitful. The minister, who devoutly adored his 


96 


beautiful wife, saw the folly of his demeanor, and 
placed about her the saving influeuce of love and 
confidence. A. daughter's birth seemed to unite 
them more closel}" ; and the cherished two minds to 
train, became Mr. Meserve's duty and pleasure. By 
reason of Vezia’s adherance to her vow never to di- 
vulge the identity of her tempter, Mr. Chandler re- 
tained the clergyman’s confidence : and little Ralph 
^rew up under the tuition of the man to whom his 
departed mother had entrusted him. Years rolled 
on. Ralph Chandler grew richer ; and his wife’s in- 
fluence withdrawn, he leaned more and more to a 
life incident to the possession of great wealth and 
power. He drifted into politics and was elected 
Governor of the State. He went to Congress. He 
only escaped a Senatorial career because the affairs 
of his vast business would not permit. His days 
and nights were occupied with interests seemingly 
illimitable. He had no time to think of making an- 
other marriage. His counting room and his club, 
with an hour at the Meserves, in the evening, to chat 
and pet his son, these were his only employments. 
He slowly relinquished religious interest, but in- 
creased his donations, fostering every project of Mr. 
Meserve’s, contributing largely to Burr street church, 
which he developed from a chapel into a gorgeous 
sanctuary. He made a few visits to Europe; invest- 
ed in English industries; founded a continental 


97 


agency for his American productions ; opened com- 
merce with South American ports ; ran out to Cali- 
fornia; bought interests in several railroads and 
mines ; had his brokers in New York, Chicago, lyon- 
don ; established mills in the south ; built a palatial 
mansion on Blue Hill avenue; enlarged this mag- 
nificent country seat at Chelmsford ; revived his 
racing stud ; had the Herreshoffs build him a yacht 
big as an ocean racer; and pursued, with advancing 
years, the pace that kills. But it did not kill Ralph 
Chandler. He thrived upon it. His accumulating 
wealth led him into politics simply to flatter a vani- 
ty for power ; he bought fast horses to breed faster 
ones ; he kept his yacht for a day’s fishing, or a run 
about the watering places; but amidst it all his 
active brain was coining gold, gleaning profits, and 
gladdening his generous heart with kindness to 
everybody, especially to the little woman who was 
the foster mother of his son. But he never forgot 
that evening in his dining room on Boylston street. 
Neither had Vezia forgotten it. Nor did she, upon 
the birth of her daughter, exhibit less concern for 
his son. For each she had affection, equal interest 
and devotion. The reconciliation with her husband 
was completed b}^ the birth of Beatrice ; and until 
Mr. Meserve’s death, their conjugality was undis- 
turbed. It cannot be said Vezia was unaffected by 
Mr. Chandler’s marvelous success in life. Nor was 


98 


she blind to his magnanimity. She delighted in his 
prosperity, in his elevation to office, in his widening 
influence in the world of commerce. Feeling the 
responsibility of rearing the heir to this enormous 
estate, she grew to have a vital concern in every 
project of the great business; and the hour occupied 
daily by his visit became ultimately devoted to un- 
folding his plans to her and to his son. Thus the 
growing youth and his adopted mother became mu- 
tually concerned in the affairs of the Governor. 
This did not lead to any deflection from the line of 
her duty to her husband and daughter. Mr. Meserve 
continued a devout servant of the Lord’s, simple 
and unostentatious, beloved by his people, respected 
by the entire city, and mourned by all denominations 
when called to his reward. 

Somehow Governor Chandler never could become 
interested in Beatrice. She seemed an interloper. 
She appeared an invader of a circle sacred through 
tender memories. As a child he paid little heed to 
her ; as a young miss he felt only a slight acquaint- 
ance with her. Her mother noticed this, and felt the 
slight; but when she spoke to him about it, he 
explained his feeling so lucidly she understood. 

Beatrice was the pet of her father. His preference 
had been for a daughter, and upon this girl he 
expended the volume of his sweet, gentle nature. 
But Beatrice was not a lovable child. The Gover- 


99 


nor was justified, in a measure, in disliking her. 
She was fretful, peevish, unreasonable, exacting. 
She was given to exhibitions of violent temper; 
frequently had sulks ; possessed abnormal incli- 
nations and propensities in her amusements and 
playmates. Vezia was, mother-like, blind to these ; 
her father also. But the Governor discerned that 
the companion of his son was an “ odd stick,” and 
he did not particular!}^ care for them to mingle too 
much together. As Beatrice grew older these traits 
largely disappeared. She became more sweet- 
natured, affectionate, tractable; and bade fair to 
develop into an interesting woman. The first 
exhibition she gave of the traits of her child-hood 
was indifference respecting her father’s death. 
Aside from being decidedly manish in her attire, 
rather hoydenish in her actions, she was conven- 
tionally well-behaved until her father passed away. 
To this fateful event she seemed unimpiessionable. 
She did not miss him ; nor weep for him ; nor cherish 
his memory. On the other hand Ralph was heart- 
broken over the demise of his preceptor, grieving 
quite as deeply as if for his own father. The Gover- 
nor noticed this, and was incensed at Beatrice for 
her insensibility. Her mother remarked it, but was 
silent. She did not fail to recognize the startling 
difference between her daughter and Ralph over the 
event. 


lOO 


It was more a whim of Governor Chandler’s than 
anything else which led him to offer Mrs. Meserve 
and her daughter a home after the clergyman’s 
death. To keep his valued circle complete became 
a pet project of the busy man who had only this 
little group to claim his devotion. The relations 
had been of so many years duration, it followed that 
Vezia and her daughter should feel more at home 
under his roof than elsewhere. Their pecuniary 
position rendered the arrangement advantageous. 
The clergyman left no estate. Beatrice was just 
‘^coming out,” and her mother had high ambitions 
for her. Vezia hoped to make a match between her 
daughter and the Governor’s son and heir. Ralph 
had thus far developed none of his mother’s weak- 
ness, taking more after his father. Having been 
under her eye from infancy, Mrs. Meserve thorough- 
ly understood the young man’s character. She knew 
Beatrice was in no way calculated to be his wife ; 
but shut her eyes to the incompatibilit}^ She was 
ambitious for her child, though sensible to all defi- 
ciencies. 

As Mrs. Meserve grew older she grew more diplo- 
matic. Her lively interest in the Governor’s affairs 
did much to cultivate this quality. She felt she 
would be doing a very commendable thing could 
she bring Beatrice and Ralph together. Not a 
syllable did she intimate to his father. She knew 


lOI 


he preferred making discoveries and effecting ar- 
rangements himself; one of those men, no mat- 
ter how advantageous a thing may be, if it does 
not originate with him, is not to be adopted. She 
did everything in her power to make the Governor 
see that it was best for Ralph to marry Beatrice. 

It was at the point where she discovered her plans 
miscarrying that we find Vezia Meserve this hot 
summer evening, sitting before the, Governor, watch- 
ing him sipping his punch, listening to his running 
chat upon business affairs. All day she had been 
revolving a vital question in her mind. How could 
she accomplish it? She learned Ralph was contem- 
plating a trip abroad for sight-seeing. He had com- 
pleted his course at Harvard ; and before taking him 
into the counting room, his father proposed he make 
a tour of the world, “just to round off the corners.’^ 
Vezia conceived an idea, and she had been dwell- 
ing upon it air day; for some days, in fact. It 
was deep, subtle. If her hair lately had an added 
grace ; if her gown hung more gracefully ; if her 
conversation was more lively ; if her attentiveness to 
the Governor was more marked ; there were purpose 
and intent therein. Beatrice observed this ; un- 
suspected by her mother. This was what caused her 
to watch her mother so closely when the Governor 
drove up from the station ; and it also kept her from 
being as sociable as usual, and sent her to her room 


102 


to dress for dinner. Not that she had the least ob- 
jection to being step-daughter and daughter-in-law 
at the same time of the richest man in Massa- 
chusetts ; but she was angry with herself for 
having made the discovery. She didn’t care for 
Ralph. She knew him too well. She would 
have married him quickly enough, for the atmos- 
phere of luxury tempted her greed. She had only 
one regret, poverty. Handling jewels as if they 
were chaff; seeing abundance wasted; enjoying the 
luxury of indolence; and being indulged by the 
good-hearted Governor as if she were his own 
daughter ; had spoiled her. And yet, this was the 
least of the ills she labored under ; others overshad- 
owed her. Into the pith of this newly devised pro- 
ject of her mother’s she had fallen accidentally, and 
it annoyed and piqued her. 

Vezia had studied with all the skill she possessed 
to interest and attract the Governor. Nor without 
success. For months his brain had found relaxation 
contemplating the superb attractions of the clergy- 
man’s widow ; dwelling upon her commendable 
qualities ; analyzing the recommendations and 
objections to an alliance. But whenever serious 
thought took deep root he invariably reverted to that 
never-to-be-forgotten night in his dining room, when 
climax of possibility was only averted by the merest 
chance. Although diverting relations had grown up 


103 


between them, the dream of that moment never died 
from his memory. Toni<2^ht, as he leaned back in 
his chair, the surroundings encouraging leisure, 
he fixed his eyes upon the lovely woman, who, 
for more than twenty years he had seen almost 
daily ; knew as well as man can know woman 
thus positioned ; and asked himself if he should 
make her his wife? He felt sure she sometimes 
thought on the same subject, for there was a certain 
sweetness in her face, and an air of tenderness he 
delighted in. While thus cogitating, and just as the 
recollections of that night came to him, dinner was 
announced, and Beatrice and Ralph joined them. 

The lofty, spacious dining hall of “ The Maples ” 
faced the south, and the evening breeze swept up 
from the broad, lengthy valley which sloped toward 
the river. The ladies in their light silks and the 
gentlemen in their negligees, lingered over wine and 
ices, discussing the social affairs of the summer com- 
munity. 

I came up on the train this afternooii with Cap- 
tain Falling,” remarked the Govornor, snapping the 
ashes from his cigar. ^^That fellow’s a cad, in my 
judgment. I never liked him, never knew him to 
be properly employed. In fact I’ve grave doubts 
about his right to the title he wears.” 

Mrs. Meserve flashed a look at Beatrice, who col- 


ored, bit her lip ; while Ralph, occupied with his ices, 
remarked, without raising his head : 

“I’m afraid you’re treading on dangerous ground, 
Pap. Beatrice is decidedly fond of the Captain.” 

The Governor glanced at the young lady, noticed 
her color and said, more emphatically : 

“Oh, no ! that can’t be possible ! Beatrice isn’t 
partial to adventurers — ’ ’ 

He would have continued, but caught Mrs. Me- 
serve’s eye, which signalled him to desist. 

“ Beatrice met Captain Falling at the boat house 
at a hop not long ago, and was quite impressed by 
him,” said the mother. 

” H’m ! ” remarked the Governor, still looking at 
Beatrice, who was toying with a spoon. “ At the 
boat house, eh ? They tell me those hops are very 
swell, Beatrice ? ” 

He had resumed his agreeable tone. Beatrice re- 
plied : 

“That can hardly be if adventurers patronize 
them.” 

She gave the curl to her lip the Governor especi- 
ally disliked. He adjusted his glasses and fixed his 
eyes on the downcast face, which retained its angry 
flush. 

“No, hardly,” he replied. “I’m surprised the}^ 
receive the Captain.” 


105 

“Well, they do receive him, and he’s extremely 
popular with every one ! ” 

“Too bad. I’m sorry,” muttered the Governor^ 
transferring his gaze to Mrs. Meserve, who was trying 
to prevent his continuing the conversation. 

“Yes,” spoke up Beatrice, seemingly encouraged 
by the taunting manner, “ and he’s anything but an 
adventurer, sir! he’s a gentleman ! He’s proven that 
by speaking well of yourself 1 ’ ’ 

“ Oh I ” laughed the Governor, “ that’s no proof ! 
Doubtless he’s seeking to get into your good graces 
in order to borrow money from me. I’m told he has 
absolutely no means of support ! ” 

Beatrice was becoming livid under this castigation 
of her friend. 

“You remember his mother? ” said the Governor, 
addressing Mrs. Meserve. “She was a member of 
Burr avenue church.” 

“Yes, I knew her.” 

“And she was much and unpleasantly talked 
about, too, you may remember ? ” he continued. 

Mrs. Meserve colored, but made no reply. Beatrice 
was watching and observed the flush, but did not 
understand it. 

“ Oh, I guess Falling isn’t the worst chap that 
ever lived,” said Ralph, disposed to conciliate what 
he saw was brewing an unpleasant discussion. 


io6 

Indeed you’re right ! ” broke in Beatrice, thankful 
for some word for the Captain. “ And I don’t think 
your father ought to denounce a man of whom he 
really knows no harm ! ” 

This stung the Governor’s positive nature. 

I never make mistakes in judging character, Miss ! 
I pronounce Captain Falling worthless ; and I for- 
bid him the hospitality of this house! I hope that’s 
quite sufficient ? ” 

It was sufficient to bring the conversation to a ter- 
mination, and equally sufficient to dispose of the 
projected party to the boat race. The Governor and 
Mrs. Meserve strolled out onto the porch ; Ralph 
went to the stable for his pony ; and Beatrice walked 
to the end of the grounds, seating herself on one of 
the rustic benches and pretending to read. She was, 
however, dividing her attention between the tete-a- 
tete going on between her mother and the Governor; 
and watching the pathway leading from the road 
into the upper end of the grounds. She had prom- 
ised the Captain she would be at the races. She 
wanted to see the sport, but wanted to see the Cap- 
tain more. He was her senior some twenty years. 
He had retired from the merchant service for a rest, 
was possessed of some means, and was regarded as a 
well-bred man of the world ; a bachelor of pleasing 
address, capable of making himself exceedingly pop- 
ular with ladies. He was of robust figure, ruddy 


107 

face, inclined to be stout. Quite in contrast with 
delicate, youthful Ralph. In every way Beatrice’s 
ideal of a man. His seniority was in his favor in 
her eyes. Like most young women she delighted 
contemplating men her elders. Mature sense, 
heroic mould, wisdom, composure, and substantial 
vigor affect women like Beatrice, and form the high- 
est possible recommendations. 

With one eye on the porch, the other down the 
road, she revelled in conflicting feelings. She did 
not like Governor Chandler; perhaps because be 
did not strive to make her like him. She had a dread 
of him ; felt his gaze too keenly ; stood in awe of his 
brilliant mentalit3\ How different her mother in 
this regard? She saw her lean a white arm on 
the Governor’s chair and beam into his face. 
Mrs. Meserve was certainly a most facina^ing woman. 
All her youth had promised, her maturity realized. 
She was superbly formed ; suggestion of advancing 
years enhancing her charms. Her mother’s devo- 
tion to the Governor, while Beatrice tried to excuse 
it on account of gratitude, displeased the haughty, 
head-strong girl. 

From across the river Beatrice heard shouts and 
cheers attendant on the boat races; and soon carriages 
began coming, indicating the sport had terminated. 
She nodded pleasantly to passers, all of whom 
were summer neighbors, who made it a rule to seek 


io8 


opportunity to salute some of the Governor’s family. 
Her eyes were watching for the approach of the Cap- 
tain, who she believed would pay her a call, or at 
least want to stop to inquire the cause of her absence? 
It w’as growing dark. Ralph had returned from his 
ride and taken a place on the side porch with his 
mandolin. The stables were closed for the night. 
All was stillness and peace, save the suppressed 
voices of the Governor and Mrs. Meserve in conver- 
sation. 

Beatrice saw them arise and saunter into the 
house. She saw them stroll through the broad hall, 
while the butler came out, closed the shutters 
and replaced the piazza chairs. She saw them ascend 
the stairs, and she watched for a light to appear in 
her mother’s boudoir. The gas flashed up in the 
Governor’s ijoom, and she saw two figures; but the 
boudoir remained in darkness. She felt a chill and 
hastened toward the house, her eyes fixed on the 
boudoir window. Hurrying in b}^ the side door she 
quietly slipped up the back stairway. At the mid- 
landing she halted. She heard muffled voices. They 
came from the Governor’s room. No light in the 
boudoir. It’s door stood open ; but the Governor’s 
door was closed. 

With the greatest difficulty she propelled her 
limbs making ascent to her chamber. War of emo- 
tions impeded locomotion. Indignation and shame 


109 


tusseled for mastery. How long had this been 
going on ? She tried to recall Ralph’s demeanor. 
Was he cognizant ? The father she had forgotten ; 
who had been crowded from memory by the splendor 
of her new life, seemed again a reality. That 
gentle, kind, Christian papa ! What would he think ? 
What say, could he rise from the grave ? Slowly, 
laboredly she climbed the great oaken stairway and 
entered her chamber. Her blood boiled. She 
could scarcely contain herself. Sleep was driven 
from her eyes. Her feelings were mingled disdain, 
contempt, hatred, violence. She realized as she 
removed her jewels why they were hers. She now 
knew whence they came. She knew the reason for 
her crowded wardrobe; the purchase price of her 
luxurious room. The thoughts made her sick. 
Doubtless Ralph knew ? It was incredible that he, a 
man, would be ignorant of what she,^a woman, had 
discovered. It made her hate him to think 
he could accept his father’s shelter, spend his 
father’s money, sit at his father's board ! Her con- 
tempt was unspeakable ! She felt a surging torrent 
of resentment when she contemplated the Governor’s 
denunciation of the Captain, and the silence of her 
mother in support of his objections! Monstrous! 
Those two disapprove of him ! They sit in judg- 
ment on her I 


I lO 


She sank by the window and watched the restless 
mastiffs stalking in the moonlight, sniffing the 
dewed turf. How was it she had been blind so 
long ? Why had she not seen, not mistrusted ? She 
felt bitter enough toward the Governor to kill him ; 
and despised her mother sufficiently to expose her ! 
She paused and contemplated. Was it unnatural ? 
No. But to her it was heinous, base, depraved. 
She shivered imagining the secret of the locked 
chamber below stairs. She wanted to fling herself 
against it’s doer and utter screams of protest against 
the iniquity carried on under her eyes. How plainl^^ 
now .she understood the incessant attentiveness, 
which she had believed had a holier motive ; their 
remaining at home and declining all diversions of 
the neighborhood ; the Governor’s extravagance ; 
her mother’s luxuriousness. Yet, how she had 
envied the gorgeous gems he imported, which be- 
came her mother’s beauty so well? She understood 
her mother’s solicitude for his comfort ; her zeal for 
his luxury ; her concern when he was ill. How 
plainly she saw everything. It aroused her wreak - 
ful anger. She must go away. She could never 
look them in the face again. Her father’s spirit 
came in out of the night; glided up from the moon- 
lit lawn, sad and tearful, asking where mother was ? 
He did not rebuke her for being cold and unfeeling. 
He had a deeper sorrow, a greater grief. He laid 


Ill 


his hand on her shoulder forgivingly ; imploring her 
to tell him where mother was? She 'could not 
answer. She tried to speak; to cry out ; to weep 
to relieve her wrought soul; but she was crushed^ 
wounded, insulted, wronged ! She felt her mother 
a long way removed, and going further. She could 
not imagine her below stairs, behind the massive 
locked door of that chamber. She went and listened. 
She could still hear voices behind the oaken casement. 
Her eyes started from their sockets as she peered into 
the blackness of the hall. She beat her clinched 
fists on the wall. She paced Jike a caged animah 
Within her surged shame and wrath. She felt she 
could perpetrate any crime. She had never felt 
anything like it before. She was transformed into a 
fiend. She uttered oaths. Execrations fell from her 
lips so naturally she liked their sound. She repeated 
them. She hissed them into the blackness of the 
hall. How appropriate ! How befitting ! What ! 
Apply them to her mother f Were they not true ? 
Were they not deserved ? Then temptation came on 
her to do something vile, hideous. She laughed at 
thought of it. Blood had no terror. She was a 
woman. Women never pale at sight of blood. 
Nature brands woman with it; writes health, 
buoyancy, hope, courage, affection, passion, in blood. 
Her eye is used to it. She can contemplate it with- 
out pang. Beatrice knew her strongest passion. 


II2 


She struggled against it, fought it, mastered it for 
virtue’s sake. She had felt it an inheritance. To- 
night she knew it was. vShe had proof. 

Why was Beatrice mindless of her mother’s sin ? 
Why so unfeeling at her vice ? Wh}^ so cruel 
over her depravity ? She felt the consciousness that 
from her mother she had inherited a brand ! She 
felt something telling her there was in her being an 
unavenged wrong ! Something unforgiving was 
permeating her veins, crying for vengeance ! What 
was it? There are thousands feel this dragon with- 
in them ; hear its growl ; feel its bite ; bleed and 
ache and get faint. They would vomit forth their 
tormentor! Sometimes it is cancer; sometimes 
ulcer; sometimes insanity; sometimes paralysis; 
sometimes blindness ; then again it is ungovernable 
temper ; viciousness ; strong appetite ; wicked im- 
pulses ; sensuality. The dragon was in Beatrice, in- 
effaceable, life-long, damning ! She felt it gnawing, 
prompting her to violence ! To her mother ? Nothing 
else would satisfy the dragon. It pointed its claw 
with imperious command. It told her to do so-and- 
so for it’s sake. It was a clamoring thing. It had 
lain dormant and silent since her babyhood. Occa- 
sionally it had made her restless in her sleep, waking 
with a headache, languid, gidd}', causing her blurred 
sight and frightful pains. Now she knew it was 
this dragon and she felt it cr3dng for some awful 


wrong which had been done it. By her mother ? 
It seemed to speak but she could not understand. 
Its words were like itself, unfinished. It talked of 
being her ‘ ‘elder brother.’’ Then it plunged, writhed, 
tore her until she fell sobbing on the bed in what 
people call h3^sterics. In day time they would have 
said Governor Chandler’s adopted daughter was 
having a fit. But it was this dragon that had been 
bedeviled by its mother and her mother when Doctor 
Bird was present ; when he reasoned long and log- 
ically with her father. Alas, Doctor and father both 
dead! The dragon, though, wouldn’t die I Her 
mother had made up her mind to kill it when she 
went to Armita with the announcement of its con- 
ception. Armita, poor, weak, dying, wanting to say 
something to please her pastor, congratulated him ; 
and he was dazed and couldn’t understand and went 
over onto the Common, and watched the nurses 
trundling bab}^ carriages, and gave pennies to the 
boys by the gate because they had been babies. 
Then he went home to wonder. The day of Armi- 
ta’s funeral his wonder changed to gall, when he 
came home and found his wife prostrate. It was the 
struggle she made with the dragon ! It fought ! It 
would have been a brother to Beatrice ; but became 
her tormentor, her blight, her curse ! And because 
she couldn’t be its instrument to punish their 
mother it threw her into spasms, hysteria, fits ! 


They heard her scream and ran to vSee what was 
the matter — the Governor, her mother, Ralph, the ser- 
vants. They thought she was being murdered. 
She shrieked and became uncontrollable when her 
mother approached. 

“ Go away ! Go away ! He’ll kill you ! I can’t 
hold him ! He’ll kill you ! He’s — he’s — your — my 
— oh— oh— oh— oh— OH— OH— OH— A-h-h-h-h ! ! ! ” 
She was quiet when the doctor came ; but she had 
a fever for days and was confined to her room for 
weeks. 



II5 


PART FOUR, 


Thk War op Vkngence. 

We are five years from the night Beatrice had her 
attack of hysteria ; and we glide over those five years 
because they are simply stepping stones to a point of 
vitality. Not very many changes have occurred, 
strange to say ; for five years often do much in human 
life ; always something. 

Ralph has been over the world ; has become his 
father’s partner; has married ; resides in the old home 
on Boylston street. The Governor — they still call him^ 
although he hasn’t held office in more than ten years, 
— is sixty, gouty, irritable, richer than ever, attends 
to business but little, resides in the luxurious castle- 
like estate on Blue Hill avenue. 

Beatrice is missing. 

No one knows where she is ; if living, or dead. 
She has gone, disappeared ; past out of her former 
life ; has never been sought, never asked for, never 
mourned. She went voluntarily, indignantly, after 
a furious interview in the boudoir at Chelmsford ; 


ii6 


and wlietj the Governor came home from Boston one 
night, he didn’t ask for her; her mother didn’t men- 
tion her departure ; her name was never spoken 
afterward. There was an intuitive sensibility of 
propitious kindliness in silence possessing both 
her mother and the Governor. Not to ask questions 
is the greatest kindness to some people. It shows 
you have respect for them whether they merit 
it or not. It is polite as well as political. Answers 
cost, sometimes, and are made more grudgingly than 
jewels, kisses, or caresses. It is impossible, too, 
for answers to alwa3"s be given ; as impossible as to 
give one the foot they admire, or the eye, or the 
hand, or the enamel bosom. The asking of questions 
implies a desiie to knew. 'I here are some things 
we don’t want to know. We are happiest in sur- 
mises ; careless if they be accurate. The disappear- 
ance of Beatrice had no effect. It was like the 
mist which lifted from the lawn the morning she 
went away ; was not miSvSed. Being unmentioned 
was forgotten. Only an expression of settled severi- 
ty on Mrs. Meserve’s face indicated what look place 
behind the oaken panels of the boudoir that mist- 
mantled morning. The trap with the bred cobs had 
taken the Governor and Ralph to the station. 
Beatrice arose, contrary to the doctor’s injunction, 
and sought her mother. Her tremulous, weak 
hand closed the door, and her fragile fingers turned 


the key in the lock. Two hours later it was 
snapped open by Mrs. Meserve, who, with tears 
gushing from her eyes, angry, shameful, grievous 
tears, dashed from the room, hurried into the Gov- 
ernor’s chamber, and flung herself on the bed and 
sobbed. Shortly afterward the slender figure of 
Beatrice, calm, icy, pallid of feature, darkly deter- 
mined of eye, with lips compressed, and quick res- 
piration of exhaustion, slowly emerged and retired 
to her own room, to be driven to the depot an hour 
later behind the same cobs, in the same trap. The 
train came along ; her baggage was put aboard. 

That was the end of it. 

When the Governor and Ralph returned in the 
evening, Mrs. Meserve was awaiting them on the 
porch, sweet and serene as ever. 

That is about the purport of these five years. But 
now we take up the thread and spin it minutely again. 

:i: tj: tj: :i: 

The portly old magnate slouched himself down in 
his easy chair beneath the prismatic chandaliers, 
rumpled his expansive shirt front, creased his rich 
dress coat. He had a business air about him as he 
touched the button and commanded the servant : 

“Tell Mrs. Meserve I wish to see her.” 

When the door opened a radiance of mature love- 
liness entered, but there was no buoyancy in her 
manner, no eagerness in her step, no zeal in her 


ii8 


response. The woman of fifty did the bidding of 
the man of sixty with perfunctory readinCvSS. Her 
face was flushed with color of extravagant living; 
seamed with lines of luxurious languor; haughty 
with impatient unhappiness. The golden hair was 
white ; the brilliant eyes dull ; the shapely mouth 
pouted. 

^‘Ah, you’re here! Well, about the provisions? 
You must vacate tomorrow morning ! I close up the 
house! What sum have you determined upon? 
Mark you, now, I want this to be final. No after 
claps, no future appeals, no bothering me later. 
Whatever we agree upon now is ultimate. What 
shall it be ? ” 

A shade of bitterness settled upon the aristocratic 
countenance of the woman. What interest was it to 
her if the old man brought a young bride to preside 
over his palace ? Her reign had passed. Her crown 
was called for. A few words broke her sceptre. 
She must go forth the deposed regent of a rich 
man’s — ;purse. How imperiously the old Governor 
(the farmer’s example to his son of an honorable and 
successful life) pronounced the conditions ? How 
rejoiced he was he had not yielded to impulse a few 
years previously and undertaken vows he could not 
thus rudely and unequivocally unloose ? He was 
dictator. There was no gainsaying his law. Mere- 
ly filling in a check, a few words of thanks for ser- 


vices rendered, and he and this passe woman would 
part forever. Would he care what became of her? 
Assuredly not. Would she miss him? Never! 
The partnership was dissolved. By limitation ? As 
well call it that as anything. It was over, past, 
done, ended, anything you choose to call it. No 
sadness ; no sighs ; no tears ; no farewells. It had 
been boding, in the air, generating, inevitable. 
They were too old to have any sentiment about it. 
In a month the neighbors would forget. 

The Governor was a great man I 
Well, what do you say ? ’’ 

A hdndred thousand was what I said.” 

“ And I objected ! It’s too much I ” 

“ I can’t suit you, it seems. That’s the considera- 
tion. I shall not retract ’ 

Cold, deliberate, unfeeling as a trade in horses. 
They looked into each others faces with the same 
eyes of twenty-five years before ; but they burned no 
longer with ardor ; pleaded no more with sympathy ; 
they leered, were cruel, gloated over this conscience- 
less transaction. 

“You are extortionate I Why should I meet you 
on such an extravagant basis ? You’ve no claim on 
me!” 

She looked at him mutely. What could she say ? 
She had no claim on him. There were jewels hang- 
ing from her ears, encircling her throat, about her 


120 


wrists ; anA an hour before, when the throng of 
guests departed, many remarked the splendor of her 
attire and the wealth of her gems ; and there were 
nods of head, and winks and smiles ; but no one 
dared say a word, for it was Governor Chandler ! 
Croesus ! Magnate ! Monopolist ! Oh, no ! This 
woman had no claim upon the great man ! That 
claim had been liquidated ; paid in coin ; in jewels ; 
in shelter ; in splendor ; in servants ; in carriages ; 
in unlimited credit ; in permission to be fond of the 
old man and to pander to his whims ; and payment 
had also been made by driving a daughter out into 
the world, cursing her mother ! And she had allowed 
it to go undenied. But the sacrifice of a daughter, 
what was that? The humilation of being liberated 
at a price, what was that ? 

Bah! 

Write her the check, old man, and have done with 
it ! Let her keep the thousands of dollars worth of 
jewels; what do you care? 

His half palsied hand tore a check from the book. 
The pen was dipped in ink. The words and figures 
were placed on the strip of parchment. The signa- 
ture, famous throughout the state, was appended. 
It was the same signature made to the marriage 
register with Armita Holbrook; the same signature 
made to the burial certificate when that wife was 
laid away; the same signature put to the baptismal 


I2I 


register in Burr street church when little Ralph was 
given a name before the world. It is more tremu- 
lous, less regular; but tomorrow it will again appear 
on a marriage register,, bonding the life of a fair 
flower of womanhood, who knew naught of this — 
or, well, maybe she had heard ; but what cared she 
what has been ? Mrs. Governor Chandler ! That's 
musical enough. Perhaps the old woman ” was his 
housekeeper ; she may have been his mistress? He 
got her out of the way. That’s enough. 

There! ” 

The palsied hand pushed the check across the 
table. Her hand, heavy with sparkling gems, picked 
it up, scanned it carefully, regarded it approvingly ; 
there was a rustle of silk, a swish of skirts, 
a closing door, and Vezia Meserve and Ralph Chand- 
ler were henceforth to be as much strangers as if 
they had never met. The morrow would see the 
widow, the mother of a lost child, the consort of a 
great man — What ? Where ? 

The apoplectic old Governor snapped the cigar 
ashes from his shirt bosom, put away his check book, 
grunted and hobbled out into the dining room, 
where the butler had toddy piping hot. He sat 
before the crackling logs, his mind filled with the 
grand church ceremony to take place at high noon. 
The orange blossoms were to be on the firm, hard 
bosom of a budding woman ; the bells would ring ; 


122 


paid voices would make melody ; paid fingers would 
touch responding keys; paid pipers would play 
merrily the wedding symphonies ; for the grand old 
man ” of the state was to be married ! He sipped 
his toddy, grunted, chuckled, mussed his coat 
tails, and shook cigar ashes on his linen bosom, and 
was happy and hopeful, and had a clear conscience, 
for everything was ^‘all right.” He dropped asleep. 
The clock ticked over the threshold of another day, 
and it was most dawn when the stupefied old auto- 
crat summoned his valet and was put to bed ; to act 
as bridegroom in a few hours at the grandest wed- 
ding Boston had seen in years. 

:i: :j: :i: tj: :i: 

After breakfast a stout, elderly woman moved 
down the gravel path toward the avenue to ride 
into town. No one attended her, no one helped 
her aboard the car. She was no longer of con- 
sequence; had lost caste even with the servants. 
The check in her pocket will pay the toll through 
a few years of existence; will prop the chin of 
shame a little, and make her dignified, and enable 
her to be one of life’s respectables; will give her a 
comfortable habitation ; rich food to eat ; elegant 
clothes to wear ; a servant, and a trap of some kind. 
But old acquaintances will never speak of her as 
‘^Rev. Mr. Meserve’s widow.” She will be “the 
woman who used to live with old Governor 


123 


Chandler.” It was known the minister died penni- 
less; known she was earning her living when he 
married her ; known she made her home with the 
Governor for years ; known she was supplanted by 
the old man’s newer darling, who sold herself for 
luxury of being a rich man’s wife. One was wife to 
him as much as the other. Each marketed herself. 
The elder was pensioned. The younger was wed- 
ded because she could not be possessed otherwise. 
Merely a matter of craft. From Boston’s society the 
name of Meserve was dropped. Some recalled there 
was such a pastor at Burr street church; such a 
family used to live on Clarendon street; a stately 
woman with beautiful golden hair used to prome- 
nade the Public Garden with a sweet-faced girl . 
No Mrs. Falling, no Doctor Bird, nobody to keep 
memory alive. There was a younger generation in 
the pews of Burr street ; a younger generation occu- 
pying Clarendon street residences; a younger gener- 
ation living for itself. Ralph Chandler, Jr., never 
permitted her name to be mentioned in his home ; 
and the only thing he had against his father was 
something he never talked about. 

So the elderly woman with the handsome face and 
the elegant form rode into town and went to her 
bankers. She chose her flat and set about making 
life endurable. When she went on the street and 
met people she knew, they glanced at her a moment, 


124 


then looked away. Happily the great mass knew 
naught ; who she was, what she’d been, where she 
lived? They cared less. The days dawned and 
died ; contained nothing for her, brought her nothing, 
promised nothing. She occasionally saw the rich 
equipage of the old Governor roll by ; saw his cor- 
pulent figure against the cushions ; and saw beside 
him a being of radiant youth and sweetness. It 
didn’t cause her a pang. The next instant she was 
attracted by a showy window and forgot all about it. 
She went across the Common sometimes; but never 
thought of the cripple. vShe passed through Bed- 
ford street ; but never thought of Mrs. Falling, or of 
the high school boys. She strolled onto Beacon hill ; 
but never thought of the man with the thoroughbred 
dog. She passed the house where she and Armita 
used to board; but never wanted to see their old 
room. She changed entirely ; completely ; became 
another being ; was re-sexed ; a woman, but not 
the woman. This was not the work of poverty, neg- 
lect, disease, nor misfortune. It was not through 
any caprice of Time. She no longer contemplated the 
old home down in Albemarle. Years ago, when 
she first lost her grip on its memory, she loosened her 
hold on womanhood. Her decline began when she 
forgot the old manor in the wooded hills of Virginia. 
For, however humble home may be, it is ever home. 


125 


and the shelter of virtue, even though that shelter be 
but the eaves of memory. She long since ceased to 
care if her stepmother had concluded the population 
of the Old Dominion. She had a dreadful fright one 
day. We remember it. It was the day of Armita’s 
funeral. It was the fright of a discovered criminal. 
It was remorse for the greatest crime in the world. 
She never forgot that. She lay there on the floor 
when her husband came in and found her. Good 
man ! He vsent for the doctor, who saved her life. 
For what ? That she should become an outcast ? 
That she bear a child in whose veins ran taint of her 
crime ; who was conceived where another life had 
been begun and annihiltated by her hand? That 

she should disgrace womanhood, wifehood, niother- 

♦ 

hood ? That she should drive this only child out 
into the world because that child, born of impurity, 
of crime, of murder, of deceit, because that child 
could not endure her depravit}^ ? It was a 
human mistake her life was saved by Doctor Bird. 
He and her husband thought they were doing what 
was best; but it was a mistake. And Beatrice was a 
mistake. Everything that came after was a mistake. 
God held the funnel of calamit}^ over her, and it 
snowed her head ; lined her face ; and people saw 
the dregs and avoided her. Man’s money couldn’t 
help her. The old Governor’s gift did her no good. 


126 


She had no friends ; no homes opened to her ; no one 
would speak to her except those who were paid to, 
and those who speak to everybody. 

We might as well have done with her. Her life 
line henceforth ran direct, unswerving, without 
incident. Everything was down grade. She was 
ignored by others, then by herself. She despised 
herself because despised of others. She didn’t 
become common; for a hundred thousand dollars 
will keep any woman from becoming common. But 
it won’t lift her, nor improve her, nor prop her; nor 
open a door, a heart, nor a lip. Now and again some 
man came into her life ; some man beneath her ; a 
vulture ; a leech. He lived off her for a time ; they 
quarreled ; separated ; and another took his place. 
But they were all after her money ; none after her- 
self. Ah, there’s where life cuts it’s deepest lines ; 
when the world cares nothing for us for ourselves ; 
when we have acquaintances, but no friend ; houses, 
but no home. 

A lawyer drew up a paper for her ; her will. She 
was ailing, depressed, disheartened. All her invest- 
ments she bequeathed to the founding of a home 
for foundlings. For a few months she tried 
travel, and mentioned now and again a daughter 
she would like to find. 


127 


A man walking along the bank of Charles River 
one evening at twilight saw a woman spring over 
the bridge. 

The Home for Abandoned Children has been a 
flourishing, beneficial institution. 


128 


PART FIVE. 


In^ thk Vali^ey of the Shadow. 

Bang ! Bang ! 

Two explosions of a weapon rang from a tenement 
block. Then all was still. It was late. No one was 
abroad. After some time the front door opened and 
a man appeared. He disappeared do\/sn the street 
hurriedl}^ Soon after another man skulked out the 
back way and made off. In the middle room of the 
top flat lay a woman, her dirty cotton shift bedrag- 
gled with her gore. Some wounds stop discharging 
by clodding. Close onto noon a woman stamped 
noisil}^ into the top flat, a pitcher of beer in her hand. 
She went singing through the rooms, but when 
she came to the middle room she shrieked, set down 
her pitcher, grabbed up the woman in the dirty, 
bloody shift, laid her on the tumble bed, and ran for 
a doctor. The physician sent the woman to the 
hospital. The police heard of the case and investi- 
gated. The woman had been shot by her husband, 
or lover, nobody knew which he was. Why ? Prob- 


129 


ably because he found somebody in his rooms who 
didn’t belong there. The woman had nothing to 
say. What was elicited came voluntarily from 
other tenants, prominent among them the woman 
who bore the pitcher of beer, and discovered the 
victim. With all the police and hospital surgeons 
could find, nothing of a criminating character could 
be ascertained. After a few days the woman was 
discharged as convalescent. As soon as she was out 
of sight of the hospital she went into a drug store, 
asked for pen and paper, wrote a note, called a mes- 
senger boy, and then repaired to the back room of a 
saloon and awaited a response. It was not long 
coming. A man entered, swaggering in his man- 
ner, flashily dressed, rough in speech. 

“Well, you’re out, are yer? Hell of a mess you 
came near getting me into ! What’cher goin’ ter do ? ” 
“ Going back home.” 

“ There ain’t no home ! ” 

“ What ! You’ve—” 

“ Yes, certainly ! What’cher take me fer ? How’d 
I know what chew’d do ? Case o’blow I tuk it ? 
S’pcse you’d squealed ? A honey jay I’d been to be 
keepin’ house like a gilly, wouldn’t I ? Oh, no ! I 
cleaned everything out ! Sold every stick ! ” 

“ And the money ? ” 

Blowed ! What’cher spec’ ? Think I banked it ? ” 


The woman dropped her head on the table and 
sobbed. The thug stood over her, a smile of demo- 
nical leer on his face. When she grew calmer, wiping 
her eyes with her old fur jacket sleeve, he caught 
hold of the drops in her ears. 

“Say, what’s the matter wid shovin’ these? 
They’re good for a couple o’hundred.” 

She drew away from him. 

“ No ! Never these ! ” 

She shivered, hung her head, and put her hands 
up to protect the jewels from his touch. 

“Why not?*’ drawled the vagrant. “Whot’s 
them? Nothin’ but di’mon’s! I didn’t gin ’em ter 
yer! Yer won’t be doin’ me no dirt ter hawk ’em! 
Come now, give ’em ter me, an’ I’ll be back here’n 
a jiffy wid der mon ? ” 

‘ ‘ No I No ! No 1 ” She drew" aw^ay from him 
further, still covering her ears. 

“Well, go ter !” and he struck her a 

blow with his open hand across the side of her head. 
Then he walked out to the bar and called for a drink. 

“ Here’s ter yer I ” draining his glass. 

Then he swaggered out of the place. 

The woman with two pistol bullets under her 
skin, left there because the doctors thought best not 
to probe, looked after the man w"ho put them there. 
Tears stood in her eyes. Did she love him ? Was 
it love prompted her to write the note and send for 


him ? Did she want to caress the hand lifted to take 
her life? Was she sorry for anything? No. This 
woman loved nobody. She had loved; and those 
two precious stones glistening in her ears were all 
that remained of that love. They were the gift of the 
man she loved. He had abandoned her ; deserted 
her to her fate ; tired of her ; worn his patience out 
condoning her faults ; wearied of hearing her false- 
hoods. One by one, when left alone, she parted 
with his gifts until only the ear drops remained. 
They w^ere his first present. Not the most valuable. 
The first, hence most precious. She had been 
hungry and cold, and had walked the streets penni- 
less, feeling them grating against her breasts where 
she had them hid ; but unwilling they should appease 
her hunger. She had stopped under twinkling 
street lights and dragged them through the rags 
which protected her, held them in her hands, stared 
at their brilliant light, kissed them frantically. 
They represented love, indulgence, kindness she had 
abused ; devotion she had ignored ; and they were 
all that remained of luxury and a man’s mad passion. 
She kept them, burning lights of her despoiled 
womanhood. 

She sat in that dingy back room, her elbows rest- 
ing on the blackened, dirty table, her eyes fixed on 
the door through which the brute had disappeared. 
Her hands still covered her ears, concealing the 


132 


gems. She was thinking. Two hundred dollars ! 
Yes, they’d bring that. And she penniless, every- 
thing sold, the proceeds squandered. Where should 
she go ? Where find shelter ? He ? Bah ! He, 
nothing ! He was broke, as usual. The drink 
he had just taken was unpaid for. She must pay it. 
How ? She unfastened a little pin at her throat, 
held it in her hand and looked at it. Her mind 
went back many years. She was a little girl again, 
at home with papa and mama. Papa was such a 
good man ; one everybody loved. So kind, so gentle, 
so tender; and mama, so beautiful, so admired. 
That little pin was one of her first childish ornaments, 
inseparably associated with memories of papa and 
— it was all she had except the gems. 

‘‘Jim,” she called to the barkeeper. What’ll 3^ou 
give me for this ? ” 

“ What is it ? ” he asked, from behind the bar, 
rubbing glasses. 

“ It’s a gold pin.” And she choked a little saying 
it, for dead and buried memories. 

“ A breast pin, eh ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“What’d I want with it?” 

She arose and walked out to the bar and leaned 
wearily on the stained rail. 

“ But I want a little money, Jim ? ” 


. 133 


“ What fer? Ain’t yer got Bill to take care 
o’yer ? ” 

“Him!” she choked forth. “ Take care o’ me ? 
I’m just from the hospital, Jim, and I’ve two pistol 
shots in me this minute that he fired. He’s got 
nothing. You know that. Did you ever know him 
to have anything I didn’t give him, or get for him ? ” 
“What’d yer stay with him for? You sent for 
him ? ” 

“ What else was I to do? He’s got the keys to 
our rooms, and he’s gone and pawned everything I 
had in the world except what I’ve got on.” 

“ Well, you’ve no business to be broke and them 
di’monds in your ears. Sell ’em ! What business 
has the likes o’ you with di’monds? You’re starv- 
ing and want me to buy that ’air little breast pin 
from you. I don’t want it. I’ll buy them stones, 
though. I’ll give you a hundred for ’em ? ” 

“ Won’t you buy the pin, Jim ? ” 

“No.” 

“ How much does Bill owe ? ” 

“Ten cents. He jest got a drink.” 

“Take the pin for it.” 

And she tossed it on the sloppy bar. 

‘‘ It’s good for another drink,” said Jim, examining 
the simple bar of gold. “ Have one ? ” 

“ No. If Bill comes back say I paid for another 
drink for 


134 


She huddled the worn, fur jacket about her and 
walked out into the gathering, gloomy, winter night. 
She turned from Tremont street into Chapman and 
hurried aimlessly along above the din of the trains, 
rumbling, ringing, steaming through the tunnel. 
She longed to get as far away, and as rapidly, from 
the sacrilege she had perpetrated parting with the 
pin. She was hungry and faint. Walking along 
the deserted pavement she was forced to pick her 
way, because little puddles of snow water settled in 
the uneven bricks, and her shoes were worn through. 
It was not cold, but muggy and fogg}". She kept 
peering ahead ; she might catch a glimpse of Bill. 
It made her warm to walk fast, and she threw back 
the lapels of the old fur jacket. At the corner of 
Shawmut avenue she halted. The barricaded win- 
dow of a pawn shop caught her eye. Up went her 
hands to her ears and she plucked the gems and 
pushed them into the buttonless opening of her dress, 
onto her shallow, shrivelled breasts. They were safe. 
Still she looked determined!}^ at the pawn shop, and 
finally crossed and entered. 

“ How much on this jacket ? ’’ she asked. 

The broker examined the worn, moth-eaten wrap. 

“ A dollar.” 

She slipped out of it, fiung it on the counter, 
grabbed up the bill, and walked out. Down Shaw- 
mut avenue until she reached Pleasant street ; thence 


135 


into a dingy dive, taking a seat at a rickety table 
covered with oil cloth, called for hot sausage, bread 
and coffee. Hardly had the man started to fill the 
order when she exclaimed : 

Stop ! I’ve forgotten my money ! ” 

Out she darted into the street, fumbling in the 
pocket of her dress for the note she received for the 
jacket. She found the hole. A ghastly, hungry grin 
twitched her mouth as she walked away ; slipping 
her hand into her bosom to be sure the gems were 
safe. Up Pleasant street to Shawmut avenue again. 
Bill’s neighborhood. She might meet him. Few 
people were in sight. Not a mouthful had she 
eaten all day. The dampness made her wounds 
pain acutely. She stepped into a doorway to put 
the gems in a safer place ; for she determined to eat 
at all hazards. People will imperil their immortal 
souls for food. She picked the gems out of her bosom, 
examined them eagerly, lifted her skirts, and thrust 
them into her stocking. Then she resumed her 
walk. Her notice of passers was more eager. Be- 
fore she reached Chapman street she passed a man 
standing on the curb. The words rose to her lips to 
ask him for a dime to get something to eat ; but she 
thought of the earrings and couldn't. He spoke to 
her. She stopped and talked. He asked her to 
take a drink with him ? She knew what that 
meant, and she went. 


136 


It was past midnight when she was again alone 
on the street ; still hungry, more hungry. She went 
into the Pleasant street den, sat at a table, called for 
hot sausage, bread, coffee. 

‘‘ Found your money, eh ? ” grinned the man, a 
slovenly, shambling fellow. 

‘‘ Oh, yes,” she replied, trying to smile and 
clutching a bank note. She brooded over the 
common thing she had done. She called herself 
names under her breath. Could it be possible ? If she 
hadn’t been driven to it ! She ate her greasy meal, 
gulped the coffee, paid the check, and was once more 
on the street. 

She slowly turned into Shawmut avenue and 
sauntered up as far as the railroad bridge. The 
night air was cool and she clutched the buttonless 
front of her dress over the otherwise unprotected 
bosom. She felt utter degradation; disgraced be- 
yond previous sinfulness. The silver change clutched 
nervously in the numb fingers seemed price of ir- 
revocable ruin. She knew she was dirty, ragged, and 
both looked and acted what she was, a — but until 
tonight, until driven by hunger, never so low, so 
wanton ! Homeless, ill-clad, sick and hopeless, 
how could she help it ? Her wounds ached. 
Then she thought of Bill. Why did he shoot 
her ? Why not have waited and seen ? She 
had done no wrong ; had not been unfaithful to him. 


137 


He should have waited and seen who was in the 
room with her. She hung over the rail of the bridge 
and thought it all over. Then she started up, mut- 
tering : 

“ I’ll see if I can find him.” 

She turned into Chapman street, was soon at the 
corner of Tremont, and quickly reached the back 
door of the saloon where she met him in the after- 
noon. Carefully pushing the door open she entered. 
The back room was vacant. Bill leaned heavily on 
the bar talking to Jim. 

“ So she gin it ter ye, did she ? ” 

“O’course she did. An’ there’s another drink 
here for you,. Bill. Hev it ? ” 

“ No. I’m goin’ ter git them di’mon’s. Them’s 
what I wants.” 

The men heard the click of the back door and 
turned. Jim had the little gold pin in his necktie. 

Bill fixed his drunken eyes on the woman and 
staggered forward. 

So you’re back, be yer ! Goin’t’set ’em up? 
Tha’s right ! Di’mon’s gone, eh ? Pawn’d ’em, eh ? 
Zhacket, too, eh ? That’s b’s’ness ! No right ter 
have di’mon’s an’ me starvin’ an’ no home ! Whar’z 
’money ? ” 

She put the change from her supper in his hand. 
He was too stupid to realize its insignificance. 


‘‘Goo’nuf! See thet, Jim? Comes like a goo’un 
an’ gives me whot she gets fer them di’mon’s ! Le’s 
hev sunthun, Jim.” 

The men drank at the bar, she sitting in the back 
room, watching them. They didn’t invite her. 
The drink completed Bill’s oblivion, and he reeled 
around unable to talk. She stepped into the bar, 
seized him by the arm and led him out the back door. 
He, the man who shot her! The man who had just 
taken from her the money she had disgraced her- 
self to buy food with ! The man who sold her out 
while vShe lay in the hospital writhing with his 
wounds I 

Women are strange ! 

She placed her arm about him, steadied him down 
the street across Washington street, Harrison avenue, 
to Albany street, where a lumber yard gate stood 
open. She guided him inside. He slumped onto a 
pile of plank. She lay down beside him. She felt 
in her stocking for the earrings. They were there. 
She was content, and went to sleep. 

She was relieved when, at daybreak, a patrolman 
rudely grabbed her up and hurried her off to the po- 
lice station. 

Bill, with his usual fortune, escaped. 

Stiff, sore, and ill, she waited in a cell for the van 
to take her to court. A mess of something in a tin 


139 


pot, a hunk of bread, breakfast. Repeatedly she 
plunged her hand into her stocking. They were 
safe. 

Thirty days, House of Industry.’’ 

No defense; no protest. A nod of her head, a 
scratch of the judicial pen, into the van, down to the 
wharf, aboard the steamer. 

The instant she entered the cage on the boat her 
eye fell on a dwarf huddled up in the corner. Their 
eyes met. The^^ were total strangers; but they 
could not remove their eyes from each other. Both 
ragged, bedraggled, besotted, they looked into each 
other’s face lovingly. He was repulsive, vicious, 
cruel. Yet she was as fascinated as one in her half- 
starved, wounded, sore, filthy condition could be. 

In an hour they reached Deer Island and prison 
life. 

While being searched ; even when they took the 
gems from her, asking where she stole them ? when 
the rough woman grabbed her and pushed her into 
the bath ; when the\^ put the coarse prison garment 
on her and sent her to the laundry to work ; all the 
time she glanced about, peering slyly, for the face 
of the dwarf. At night as she lay on the hard bed 
staring up to the high whitewashed ceiling, she 
pictured the hard, cruel face. The instant she a^oke 
it was before her ; and all day long, and for the 
thirty days she remained. Improvement of mind 


140 


and body, a clarifying of besotted being, didn’t drive 
away the face. As she thought upon.it she mentally 
fondled it, imagined kisses for it in her sleep. It 
charmed her, eased her, soothed her. 

They told her to get ready for liberation. They 
gave her back the gems. They had no right to 
keep them, and no clue to her possession. She 
went down to the landing to take the boat back to 
the city. She was free. A month prisoner. It had 
sobered her, cleaned and purified her. They had 
washed her dress ; mended her undergarments ; 
patched her shoes ; sewed strings to her bonnet. 
Her skin felt smooth ; her head felt clear ; her 
eyes were brighter ; her face less bloated ; her limbs 
didn’t tremble. She was free again ! While 
sitting in the cage on the landing awaiting the 
boat the door opened and the dwarf shambled in. 
He, too, w as cleaner, brighter, smoother-looking ; 
but hideous to all but her. She started. He walked 
over to her. 

“ We go back together, as we came ? ” he said. 

She could hardly speak. She wanted to answer. 
It thrilled her for him to speak to her. His voice 
sounded familiar. She had heard it before. She 
looked in his face. His dark, rolling eyes were 
peering up at her from beneath shaggy brows. 

“ YevS,” she managed to reply. 


Then they looked at one another and kept looking. 
A feeliifg of happiness came over to her, something 
she had not known, a new happiness. When the 
boat came in and the keeper opened the cage door 
for the liberated prisoners to go down the gang 
plank, the dwarf walked beside her ; took hold of 
her arm. It thrilled her to faintness for him to 
touch her. Quivers of joy like fever shivers ran 
over her. They sat side by side on the lower deck, 
away from the other libertees. 

The sea breeze makes one hungry/^ he remarked. 

She felt hungry immediately. 

Yes,’^ she replied. 

He liked her voice and wheeled around facing 
her. Their eyes met, and she felt something per- 
meate her being coming from him like a marrow of 
force. 

“ You’re going home ?” he asked. 

I have no home,” she replied. 

She said this quickly. 

No home,” he muttered. 

She watched him. He rolled his dark eyes up to 
her’s, and a smile of ghoulish fantasy overspread 
his face. She smiled back at him. She couldn’t 
help it. Then he put his hand on tier’s, and they 
‘sat that way until they went ashore. He offered his 
arm. She took it The officers on the wharf 


142 


laughed ; but they heeded not. They walked up 
from the dock, along deserted Atlantic avenue, and 
up into Federal street. 

They talked some. 

‘‘ Ihn a tailor,” he said. “ I take a little too much 
sometimes. You understand ? ” 

Yes, she understood. She did also. But how 
grand she felt with her wrist resting on his skinny 
arm, and his shuffling steps, two to one of her’s. 
She looked down upon him every minute. He was 
so tiny, barely to her elbow. She asked questions 
to hear him talk. His voice was harsh, but like 
vestal bells to her. 

“You can come and stay with me, if 3^011 don’t 
mind ? ” 

She smiled and squeezed his arm a little. It 
pleased him. He broke his face up into jagged 
fragments and chuckled. 

They hurried on. 

“ iVe never had a girl/’ he went on, “ Fm too 
homely for any one to like me.’^ 

He hop-scotched to keep up with her. She smiled 
into his ugly face, and clutched his arm more tight- 
ly. They were very happy. He knew why he w^as 
happy ; but she didn’t. She was controlled. Some- 
thing was impelling her to keep close to this creat-* 
ure. He wasn’t a man; nor a boy; but a creature. 
He was a God in her eyes. She couldn’t tell why. 


143 


“ In here ! ’ ’ he exclaimed. 

They dodged into an alley, into a low door, 
mounted three flights of steps. 

•‘Wait here. Til get my key.” 

OIF he pattered in the dark. She heard his foot- 
steps traversing a long corridor. Soon he came back, 
« thrust a key in the lock, asked her in. He struck a 
match, lighted a lamp. They were in a large, airy 
room. A. tailor’s workshop and bedroom combined. 
It was moderately clean. The bench had unfinished 
work on it. The bed was made up. Empty bottles 
stood around. A pipe and some cut tobacco. Dirty 
dishes. 

He bustled around straightening things out ; but 
he was too happy and too nervous to do anything 
well. 

“Let me help you?” she said, and went to 
work putting things to rights. 

“If you’ll build a fire I’ll go out and get some- 
thing to eat,” he said. 

OflT he went, taking a pitcher with him. She 
knew that was for beer. Her head throbbed. 
She was very happy. Something in her soul 
which had been tormenting her for years seemed 
gone. She felt lighter, brighter, happier. She built 
the fire. She sat down to watch it burn. The 
warmth made her sleepy. She stuck her wet 
feet up to the heat. She felt hate and revenge burn- 


144 


ing oflf the soles. She thought of Bill and curled 
her lip in scorn. He was out of her life; the dwarf 
was in it. And the dwarf filled it. He seemed in 
her, over her, about her ; gorging her heart and 
mind ; awakening latent sweetness; arousing kindli- 
ness long dulled and smothered. She longed for 
him to come back ; missing him for the few minutes. 
She smoothed out her patched dress skirt to look as 
neat as she could. She stood before the mirror and 
with the broken comb smoothed back her hair. 
She smiled and looked around the room, planning 
what she would do next day fixing it up and 
making it prettier. 

The door opened and the dwarf scurried in, laden 
with edibles and toting the pitcher over-running 
with beer foam. 

‘‘My credit’s good! ” he exclaimed. “Ain’t that 
lucky ? We’ll have plenty, though, as soon as I get 
to work. There’s all that to be finished,” panting 
to the bench “ Maybe you could help me ? ” 

He looked up into her face and grinned, and he 
seemed so precious she caught his face in her hands 
and kissed it. This appeared to frenzy him. He 
sprang up and clasped her around the neck and 
dragged her into a chair beside him, and fondled 
and caressed her. 

They partook of their meal, drank the beer, enjoy- 
ing it royally. Their tongues ran ceaselessly. The}" 


145 


talked of their life on the islaud and laughed over 
the peculiarities of the officers and matrons. They 
made sport of such a little thing as being in prison a 
month. 

“ You must have been a remarkably pretty 
woman ? ’’ he s^id, gazing admiringly into her face. 

I fell in love with you on the boat going down, and 
I ain’t thought of anything else but you since I’ve 
been there.” 

‘^It was just the same with me,” she replied. 

They wiped the beer off their lips and kissed. 

“We’ll get along nicely together, I know,’^ he 
continued. “We won’t go out except together. We 
won’t drink anything unless we drink together. 
Then we won’t get into mischief.” 

He fixed his eyes upon her with a look which gave 
him the expression of a grieved child. A peculiar 
thrill went through her. She thought it might be 
the effect of the light. She held her hand in front of 
it. No, he looked at her the same way. She had 
seen that expression before. It was the first suspi- 
cion of the kind that came to her. She knew she’d 
seen that look before. 

“ You’ve had some fellow ? ” he asked. 

“ Oh, yes,” she replied, laughing. 

“ How do I know you won’t go back to him when 
you get on your feet ? ” 


146 


He looked more grieved and worried. The resem- 
blance to something she had seen was more striking. 

“ Can’t you trust me?’’ she asked. 

She put her arm about his hump and kissed him. 

“I’m going to trust you ’cause I want a girl, and 
I love you, I can’t help trusting people I like. 
But it ain’t safe to trust good looking women; at 
least, not for broken-back men to trust their pretty 
girls. Is it ? ” 

She laughed and hugged him because she enjoyed 
petting him. He seemed a toy, a plaything, a cute- 
ness that satisfied her. 

I shan’t make you jealous,^’ she said. 

But I am jealous,” he broke in. “ I’m always 
jealous. I’ve been so since I was a child. I was so 
abused » and belittled, and kept under that I can’t 
help being jealous. Now I’ve got you, and you and 
I are going to live together, how can I help wonder- 
ing if you’ll be willing to stick to a hunchback like 
me ? 

“You’ve seen better days?” she hinted. 

He looked up at her again with that rememberable 
childish gaze. 

“I was born an aristocrat; but I was the black 
sheep. My brother was the favorite. He was hand- 
some. My mother was another man’s wife.*’ 

“ Are you illegitimate ? ” she exclaimed. 


147 


“ Pretty near. I’ve got most too much to put up 
with to be called that, but you come pretty near be- 
ing right. My mother was a war widow ; my father 
a bachelor and a school teacher. My mother lived 
near the school and they got acquainted in that way. 

I’ve good blood in me on both sides. I’ve a brother. 

He’s good looking, they liked him and he’s well 
fixed.” 

He grew sad, and his face looked more familiar 
than ever. It was so downcast and solemn she # 
couldn’t help loving him. 

He turned out the light. 

She couldn’t sleep. Something surged within her. • 

It was joy and gladness ; for she was happy. He 
loved her and went to sleep nestling to her like a 
.child, his arms about her, his kisses dying in slum- 
ber. How she longed to be thus loved ! How it 
appeased her, calmed her, and made her happy! 

The blackness seemed fading from her life as a gar- 
ment bleaches in the sun. She felt no longer de- 
graded. This love was real, kind, ecstatic. She 
hugged him while he slept. Backward her wide- 
awake mind went. Where was the tormentor of her 
whole life? Where was that inward burning which 
never left her? Where the terrifying consciousness 
of something awful in herself? She went back to 
her life with Bill; its baseness, iniquity. She 
went back to the last night they were together ; 


148 


the pawned jacket, the loss of the money, the sin 
to satisfy her hunger, Bill’s brutality, the bed in 
the lumber yard. 

She sprang up and dove into her stocking ! 

Yes, the gems were all safe ! 

She lived over again the days with the man who 
gave them to her — her first lover ; his kindness, ten- 
derness, indulgence. She found a harborage with 
him when pursued by terrors at the most critical 
% period of her life. He installed her a queen ; encom- 
passed her with luxury ; decked her in fine raiment; 
bejeweled her; trusted her; believed in her. She 
• deceived him ; betrayed him ; proved false. He de- 
serted her. 

Again she got up and drew from her stocking the 
glittering mementoes of her days of first, happiest sin. 
She tucked them away again and crept in closely 
beside the dwarf. As she felt his touch he seemed a 
part of her life prior to her first temptation, in her 
girlhood, in her childhood, in her infancy. He was 
the form, shape, size of her tormentor ; of her sin- 
wooer, of her curse. She recalled his possession of 
her when he came up from the smooth, moonlit lawn, 
where the restless dogs were stalking and sniffing. 
He came hand-in-hand with her dead father. He 
possessed her soul and called for vengeance for his 
own destroyed life. He declared : “ I am thy elder 
brother ! ” She saw him bleed, and foam, and gnash 


149 


his teeth ! She remembered how he brought to her 
knowledge of her mother’s shame. How he dragged 
her dead father from his grave to behold their family 
dishonor! How her father wept; how he wept; 
how the angels wept ; how her womanhood revolted 
and rebelled I She recalled his imp-like form as it 
danced about her head, jumped into her heart, tore at 
the tendrils of her soul, and told her the tale of 
mother’s shame and told her he had brought father’s 
spirit to bear witness to it I He came to her in the 
shape of a hideous dragon, scorching her soul, dry- 
ing her blood, blighting her mind I She remembered 
the night of horror and the weeks of fever! How, 
when she arose from her bed she knew she was pos- 
sessed of the spirit of immatured kindred, of the 
unripened fruit of her parents’ wedlock. Her father 
knew, in his spirit life, all about it. She went into 
her mother’s room and locked the door, and faced 
her with the greatest crime in the world 1 

But this creature beside her was flesh; real, natural, 
loving, fond, and made her peaceful and content. 
He had been with her in prison. They sympathized 
and love sprang up and blessed them. 

By the time their child was bo rn they had lived 
out of the gloom of Deer Island ; out of debt ; out of 
fear; out of jealousy ; and were the happiest parents 
in Boston. They worked industriously. Tailoring 
was brisk ; comfort surrounded them. Neither went 


abroad without the other, except to deliver work ; so 
it happened that one Sunday morning she took the 
baby and he a basket of lunch and they rode out to 
Mount Auburn Cemetery. 

I want to show you my mother’s grave,’’ he said, 
as they went through the magnificent gate. Along 
the smoothly gravelled walk they strolled, he toting 
the basket, she the baby. They passed a newly 
made mausoleum. She uttered a cry, swooned on the 
walk with the child in her arms. * 

“ I shouldn’t have let you come out today. You’re 
not strong. We’ll go home.” 

‘‘ No ! No ! ” she exclaimed sitting up and 
staring at the chiselled stone in the huge shaft be- 
fore her. She read the inscription : 

S A C RE D 

TO THE MEMORY OF 
VEZIA NOURSE MESERVE, 

Who Departed This Life In The 53RD 
Year Of Her Age. 

HER ENDURING MEMORIAL IS THE 
‘‘ HOME FOR ABANDONED CHILDREN,” 
f FOUNDED, AUGUST— 18—. 

This Monument Was Erected By Admirers 
Of Her Philanthropy. 


Come. 


“A good woman, no doubt,’’ he said. 

Let’s move on.” 

She clambered to her feet. She always obeyed. 

They proceeded a little further, came to a small 
lot, ill kept, containing a grave with a small stone. 
The carving was cheap and rough. It read : 

“SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF 
RUTH FALLING.” 

Erkctkd By Her Son. 

“ I put that up,” he said. “ Come, you’d best get 
home.” 

That was one of their Sundays. 

They had many simple excursions, but never 
again visited Mount Auburn. She was wrapped up 
in her bright pretty baby, and more deeply in love 
with its hunch back papa. No man could be more 
tender, fond, sweet natured, indulgent. There was 
but one secret between them, and she wore that in 
the bottom of her shoe. The diamonds! She dared 
not show them ; could not hid^ them ; would not 
sell them. They were sacred. 

How proud she was of her deformed man ! It 
seemed the exactly suitable thing that they should 
love. When she had day dreams and dissected her 
soul she discovered where it was she had seen his 
upturned face, and the leer of his eyes from under 
the shaggy brows. She went out of herself, to some 


152 


other world, long before she was born. She was 
walking along a park and met a nurse girl with a 
cripple and a larger boy who was handsome. But 
she didn’t seem to be herself. She seemed to be her 
mother. The cripple had a face like her man’s. She 
laughed at this, it was so absurd. 

The baby grew, was shapely, handsome, bright. 
She was very proud of her. So was her papa, al- 
though not much bigger. 

“I’ll take the bundle around today,” she said, “I 
want to get a dress on my way back.” 

So he did up the bundle of coats they’d been mak- 
ing, and she changed her clothes and went off with 
it. He remained at his work, baby playing on 
the floor. The child crawled under the bed and 
dragged out one of her mother’s slippers she’d cast off 
to put on her shoes to go out. Something rolled out 
onto the floor. He, sitting cross-legged on the bench, 
saw it glitter. He sprang down and picked it up. 
It was the two earrings caught together by the spiral. 
He was furious, wil^, crazed ! All the jealous}^ of 
his nature was inflamed ! He tore up and down the 
room until she came in. 

“ Here ! Here ! ” he shouted, dancing from the 
floor into a chair and out again. “ These ! Your 
lover! Who is he? Where did you get these? 
How came you by them ? Diamonds ! And we so 


153 


poor! Speak ! Tell me ! Til kill you! I’ll stran- 
gle the child ! She’s not mine ! She’s his ! Who 
is he I His name ! I’ll shoot him ! Speak ! 
Damn you, speak ! ” 

She sank into a chair, while he beat his little fists 
on her knees and shoulders. She hadn’t strength to 
push him away. 

For once she had forgotten them ! The first time 
in her life she had overlooked them ! 

“ They were given me,” she replied when she re- 
covered breath. 

I know ! I know ! By whom ? Who is it ? 
Quick ! Tell me, or I’ll kill the child ! ” 

She snatched the infant from his fiendish grasp. 
Then she hissed in his ears — 

Shall I tell you, fool ? ” 

“Yes, damn you, yes! Quick ! Out with it.” 

‘ ‘ They were giveyi to 7ne by your brother^ Captain 
Frayik Falling 1 ” 

“ M-y b-r-o-t-h-e-r F-r-a-n-k! Tis a — so — so — 
hell — you — he ! ” 

He fell into a distorted, quivering, shapeless, mass 
of passion ! 

She looked dowm at him 1 

She nearly dropped the child ! 

THE DRAGON ! THE DRAGON ! HE 
WAS THE DRAGON ! 


154 


The same motions ! The same writhings I The 
same contortions ! The same noises ! J ust as she had 
vSeen the awful creature in her diseased mind all the 
weeks she lay in fever ! He frothed at the mouth I 
He yelled ! He screeched ! He cursed ! He crawled 
like a worm ! He leaped like a frog ! He snarled 
like a dog ! He hissed like a serpent ! 

She picked up the gems where he had flung them* 
She clasped her child to her breast. She started 
for the door. With the agility of a hound he sprang 
after her ! He fastened his teeth in her arm ! She 
shook him off! He fell to the floor ! She kicked 
him with all her strength I Blood spurted all over 
his face ! 

She scrambled down the stairs, rushed out of the 
alley, and was gone. 

With her pretty child she went to live in an over- 
flowing block of rickety tenements. Nobody knew 
her name, nor how she lived. But she did live, and 
cared for the child, and sent her to school, and dressed 
her well. For herself, she was always besotted with 
liquor, coarse, ugly, lazy. She staid out late nights, 
slept late mornings ; but she paid her rent, and the 
child was wholesome and well fed. The woman was 
a mystery. She was quick to quarrel ; would fight 
in a second ; hated everybody. The neighbors 
didn’t like her, but they loved the sweet dainty 
child. 


155 


Men hung around her rooms when the child was 
at school. 

One afternoon when school was over, her child in 
a clean pinafore was playing with other children in a 
marsh back of the row. Suddenly a huge dog ap- 
peared and chased the children, overtaking the one 
with the clean pinafore. The brute pounced upon 
her, bore her to the ground, tore her frightfully. 
The other children screamed, ran into the houses, 
calling for their mothers. The women in the block 
ran out, but the sight stayed them, drove them back;, 
and the dog’s gnawing was uninterrupted until the 
child was dead. Then the dog ran away. The 
mother of the child came from her rooms followed by 
a man, who hurried off. She hastened onto the 
marsh, her sleeves rolled above her discolored, hairy 
arms, her dress front open, her stockings dragging, 
no shoes, her skirts torn and dirty. She yanked off 
her apron, threw it over the body, picked up the 
bleeding mass, exclaiming, with an awful oath : 

“ What are you gaping at ? Get out the way ! ” 

Then she stalked off with the dripping load. 

The police enquired into the case. They searched 
her rooms. They came across a pair of diamond 
earrings. She would give no explanation about 
them. She hadn’t wiped the blood of her child off 


156 


her hands, but was drinking liquor out of a bottle, 
and held a pipe in her gory fist. 

The mangled child’s remains were removed. 

That night they came and carted away a woman 
dead drunk, rags on her body, diamonds in her 
ears. 


Thk End. 






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